The Newton Principle
by PsandQs
Summary: Season 4 team in current political climate. Rumours of a planned terror attack has the team scrambling to get more information, when a surprise development has personal consequences for Harry. Will he be able to save both the country and those he cares about? And how will all of this impact on his burgeoning relationship with Ruth?
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This story was conceived, plotted out and the majority of the chapters written before the recent tragic events in Manchester and London. Any similarity to those events are coincidental and most certainly unintended._

 **PART I: WHERE THERE'S SMOKE**

 _To conquer oneself is the best and noblest victory; to be vanquished by one's own nature is the worst and most ignoble defeat._

 _ **Plato**_

o0o

 _ **From episode 3.4:**_

 _Catherine: Remember your son? The one with the brains, you always said?  
Harry: I just wanted him to do well.  
Catherine: He isn't doing very well, is he?  
Harry: …No._

o0o

 _Monday 13 March 2017, evening  
Clapham North community hall, AA meeting_

The chair creaked as Graham Townsend shifted his weight in an effort to find a more comfortable position. It was fruitless; the plastic chairs were not made for comfort and he sighed softly. His eyes roamed over his fellow recovering addicts as he only half-listened to the emotional woman speaking up front. He felt a twinge of guilt; her story should resonate with him, should keep his attention, but after almost two years of these meetings he had heard it all before. Her story was the same as his, and the man next to him, and the woman next to _him._ They were all haunted by the same demons, the same sense of failure, of shame. By the itch that they couldn't scratch. He'd been clean for almost two years now, and he was inordinately proud of that. He'd managed to hold down a job for longer than a year and maybe, just maybe, there was hope of a promotion. Sure, it was menial work, but he actually found its repetitive nature soothing. With a higher salary he could perhaps move out of the dingy flat he currently occupied, to a slightly better neighbourhood. Still, he wasn't complaining – it felt good to know he'd pulled himself out of the black hole of failure and despair his life had become and got back on his own two feet. _He_ had done this, and it was a victory he was determined to cling onto.

 _You didn't do it without help, though_ , an insidious voice whispered in his head, and he shuffled his feet uncomfortably. The suspicion that he had received some unseen help wouldn't leave him. Once again he recalled the first time he had met David, the man who had been willing to employ him. The flash of fear in the eyes, which at the time Graham had ascribed to a fear of junkies. But in time he had come to realise that there was probably a deeper, darker reason for the fear. For almost six months David could not look him straight in the eye, and he could not understand it, until Catherine accidentally let something slip and he began to suspect that David had been pressured into giving him the job. No, actually that was being too generous; he hadn't been _pressured_. He had been _blackmailed_. And there was only one person Graham knew who would resort to such methods. He Who Shall Not Be Named.

At first he was incredibly angry. It was yet another thing he could add to the long list of grievances he held. He Who Shall Not Be Named had no confidence in Graham to sort out his life. Instead strings were pulled from afar by the malevolent puppet-master forever nestled in the dark ether that swirled in the corners of Graham's consciousness. No matter how hard he tried, he could not get free of the man. He grimaced, somewhat ashamed at how many times he had ranted against He Who Shall Not Be Named to his sponsor, Kenny. About the lack of emotion, the inability to comfort, the unrealistic expectations. The overblown sense of own importance, the aloofness, the darkness that Graham could sense. About the immoral occupation. Kenny, bless his soul, always listened wordlessly, sympathetically, and Graham had felt that at least someone understood. Because Catherine didn't, not any more.

Graham idolised his big sister. She had always been there for him, even in his darkest days of addiction. Something that He Who Shall Not Be Named could never claim. They had been abandoned, the two of them, at a young age, usurped by a job that Graham could not fathom anyone with a shred of humanity wanting to do. Their mother had done her best, but there had been a hole she simply wasn't able to fill, no matter how hard she tried. And as a result he and Catherine had been united in their hatred of He Who Shall Not Be Named. Graham had thought that would never change, _could_ never change, but it did. About a year ago he suddenly noticed that Catherine no longer joined in when he complained about _him_ , that she merely kept quiet with a slight look of disapproval in her eyes. When he eventually challenged her about it, she had stated quietly, "I recently experienced a small part of his world, and it-" She'd sighed, then added, "I guess it made me understand him a bit better." He shook his head, still baffled by the change in her, confused as to how she could have been taken in so easily. Because he was certain that whatever had happened, it had all been a front, a façade. He Who Shall Not Be Named was simply not capable of real emotion. And he, Graham, would not be so easily taken in as his sister.

All around him chairs scraped and he realised that the meeting was over. He migrated to the coffee along with the others, looking around for Kenny, hoping to invite him over for a chat. He spotted his sponsor moving towards the door, deep in conversation with another man, and sighed in disappointment. He had seen the other guy around for the last month or so, but had not yet met him. Graham noted the short beard and the Persian features, and wondered whether the man was helping Kenny with his conversion to Islam. It was interesting that there were about four or five of the people attending this chapter of the AA who had begun the conversion process – he supposed they found solace in the structured nature of the religion. He himself was not religious at all and the thought came to him, belatedly, that he had something in common with He Who Shall Not Be Named after all, apart from the blood that ran through their veins.

o0o

 _Tuesday 14 March 2017, morning  
The Grid_

"She should be here tomorrow," Ruth was saying as she scurried along beside him, and Harry unconsciously shortened his stride to match hers. Her hair was gathered at the nape of her neck today and his eyes followed the pale column to where it disappeared into her collar, before dropping to the pile of files she clutched to her breast. Their shoulders brushed and he blinked, trying his best to refocus on what she was saying. "Debra is quite impressed with her – she says our Miss Portman is the best recruit she's seen in a couple of years." Ruth beamed up at him and his heart skipped a beat.  
"I should hope so," he responded, taking refuge behind pompous bluster, but then ruined the effect by adding cheekily, "because only the best will do for our illustrious little brotherhood, right Ruth?"  
He was teasing her and she knew it, and a second's silence followed as they both remembered that other conversation about the best collective for their team. She rolled her eyes good-naturedly before musing out loud, "Mmm. I wonder what position you will assign her in your imaginary cricket team?" and ducked into the meeting room, smothering a mischievous smile. He frowned sternly at her retreating back, but he had to work hard to suppress his own grin as he followed her inside. And all the while he studiously ignored the warning light blinking in the distance, trying to caution him that he was becoming rather too fond of his analyst.

"Right. What calamities looming on the horizon today?" he queried as he pulled out the chair at the head of the table and sat down. The others settled as well and all eyes turned to Ruth, who was rummaging through her pile of folders. Harry placed one hand on top of the other on the table and waited patiently until she extracted a sheet from between two files. It was filled with her scribbled writing but he could not make out any of the words from where he sat. She gave a brief run-down on the progress of the ongoing operations, with Adam and Zaf adding a few comments here and there, and apparently all was going to plan. But just as Harry allowed himself to relax – no impending crisis today – she added, "And lastly, GCHQ reported increased chatter about a multiple terror strike on London."  
His neck prickled and his focus narrowed until she could almost feel it probing her face like a laser. "Anything specific?"  
"No. Just rumours at the moment."  
"We should be so lucky," Harry retorted, being of the firm view that there was no smoke without fire.  
Ruth ignored the interjection. "They're trying to trace back and see if they can isolate when the rumour started, but it'll take some time."  
"I can save them the bother," Harry snapped irritably, and Adam exchanged a glance with Ruth. _Here we go again_.

"You can't blame everything on Donald Trump, Harry," Adam said wearily, and next to him Fiona stifled a smirk. Ever since the outcome of the last US election had been announced, Harry did not let an opportunity pass by to lambast the new President.  
"Can't I," he said with a baleful glare. "That narcissistic, misogynistic, racist nincompoop is dangerous. His policies will increase extremism exponentially, and he will drag all of us down with him. He can build a wall around the whole bloody country and enforce travel bans galore; not much good that will do if the extremists are being cultivated among those already inside."  
Adam looked at Ruth helplessly and she tried to steer them back on track. "GCHQ has created a heat-map of the chatter," she said and pointed a remote at the screen. "There is a concentration in south-central London."  
Zaf sat forward. "That may stroke with some random intel I received from one of my sources – he claimed that there was a Syrian man floating around Clapham, putting out feelers for extremist Islamists willing to blow themselves up. I gave Ruth the name, but I have no idea whether it is real."  
Harry absorbed this news gloomily as Ruth began to scrabble through the files once more. "Yes…" She extracted a photo triumphantly and handed it to Harry. "Imad Tu'mah entered the UK via Ireland in 2014 as a refugee. He wasn't flagged as a possible extremist at the time and has not been in trouble since his arrival."  
The photo was in black and white and the dark eyes stared back at Harry mutely. "So. Militant extremist or victim of xenophobia?" There was no answer so he looked at Malcolm and Colin. "Can we cast an electronic eye over his life?"  
Malcolm nodded and caught the photo as Harry flicked it over the table towards him. "Right then. Squeeze the lemon, good people, and the pips will come." With that dubious wisdom he departed, Leaving Adam to sort out the operational details.

o0o

 _Wednesday 15 March, morning  
JIC Offices_

"They've now picked up the phrase 'before Easter' three times," Harry concluded his briefing and Juliet frowned worriedly.  
"That doesn't give you much time," she said, and he felt a flash of irritation. Talk about stating the obvious. Furthermore, he couldn't help but notice her choice of pronoun, and not for the first time he wondered whether he could truly count on her when things went pear-shaped. Whenever they'd had a success so far in her short time as Intelligence Coordinator, she had been quite happy to throw the 'we's' around. But more often than not when trouble loomed, it quickly became 'you'.  
"We're shaking every tree we can think of, including mere saplings," he informed her flatly.  
She sailed on, seemingly unaware of his annoyance. "You're checking the sales of the ingredients for home-made explosives?"  
This time his chagrin was plainly obvious. "Yes, for all the good it will do. Nowadays all you need to become a terrorist is to lay your hands on a lorry or a car – look at what happened in Nice."  
She threw him a shrewd look. "All right. Keep me informed."  
Harry was about to rise when she continued, "There's one other thing. I am expecting a high level US representative in the next few weeks."  
He frowned; there was no official visit scheduled that he was aware of. "Who?"  
She hesitated briefly before answering. "George Enfield, the new Intelligence Advisor to the President."

"Christ," Harry muttered, and Juliet's voice sharpened.  
"I expect you to be available to brief him on our anti-terror measures, and to provide any other assistance during the visit I shall deem necessary."  
Harry's anger flared. "He's yet another of the Breitbart alumni this President is surrounding himself with. He knows nothing about Intelligence, and I am not inclined to share any sensitive information with him. Next thing we know it'll be splashed all over the Internet in that two-penny rag they claim to be a news network-"  
"Enough!" Juliet snapped, her patience at an end. They glared at each other, the air crackling with animosity, until Juliet sighed wearily. "Look. I am not exactly fond of the new American administration either. But we need to work with them all the same. We need their help in the fight against terrorism. So play nice."  
Harry scowled, not mollified in the least, before nodding shortly. Some days he hated this job.

o0o

 _Thursday 16 March, morning  
The Grid_

"Adam!" Zaf had just stepped through the pods and looked around for the Section Chief eagerly. Adam popped his head out of the kitchenette.  
"Here, mate."  
Zaf strode over. "I've got something. My guy heard whispers that this Tu'mah is targeting former drug addicts, offering them redemption through radical Islam."  
Adam stared at him in surprise. "Drug addicts?" he repeated in disbelief. "I think your asset is having you on."  
Zaf shrugged. "Possibly. But he seemed pretty sure."  
The blond spook thought about it as he steeped his tea. "Mm. I suppose blowing yourself up will at the very least release you from your addiction," he mused as he tried to make sense of the information. "Come on," he said and walked over to Malcolm's desk. The techie looked up as they approached. "Malcolm, show me that movement map of Tu'mah's that you and Colin compiled again."  
Malcolm called it up on his screen and the three men looked at it in silence. "Now, can you cross-reference it with AA venues?"  
Malcolm's fingers hovered over the keyboard uncertainly. "AA venues?" he queried incredulously. "As in Automobile Association?"  
No," Adam clarified, "as in Alcoholics Anonymous."  
" _Ohh_ ," Malcolm said, even though this instruction made just as little sense. He had long since learnt not to question the sometimes tangential approaches the field spooks came up with. He did as instructed, and yellow dots appeared among the red ones that denoted locations visited by their target. There was one smack in the middle of a particularly dense patch of red dots, and Adam pointed at it.  
"What's that?"  
Malcolm called up the details. "Clapham North Community Hall. The local chapter of the AA holds their meetings there."  
"Right – I think it's time we paid them a visit." Adam straightened up and looked around, spotting his wife across the Grid, talking to the new girl. "Fiona, with me," he instructed before turning back to Malcolm. "I'll need a computer content copying device."

o0o

 _Clapham North community hall_

Reggie Carpenter watched the elegant woman across from him in some awe. He didn't often rub shoulders with such well-turned out people – his chapter of AA served one of the poorer communities and he had little experience in dealing with the well-to-do. She smiled at him charmingly as she held out a business card. "Felicity Cummings, Mr Carpenter," Fiona said smoothly. "I represent a number of corporations – big corporations – that are looking for charities to invest in."  
Reggie studied the card in his hand. It indicated that Ms Cummings was a PR consultant, and he smiled as he lifted his eyes back to her face. "What can I do for you, Ms Cummings?"  
"Felicity, please," she encouraged. "As you may or may not be aware, the latest budget announced significant tax breaks on charitable donations. My clients are keen to take advantage of that. Some of them have factories in this area and are looking for something in the local community. I was informed that you do wonderful work here."  
"Er, thank you," Reggie said, somewhat lost as to whom might have been saying such nice things about the local AA. "What, er, what sort of investment are your clients looking to make?"  
"I am glad you asked, Reggie," Fiona responded with her brightest smile. "I was thinking you could show me around the premises, then I can see for myself where the money would be best spent."  
Reggie agreed readily, and shepherded the woman out of his office and down the corridor. He did not notice the tall blond man that slipped into the office behind them.

o0o

 _Two hours later  
The Grid_

Adam perused the names on the AA list, hoping for inspiration. Tu'mah's name did not appear on it, but that did not surprise him. There were lots of foreign names – Clapham was a melting pot of nationalities and ethnicities, a poster child for everything the Brexit supporters loathed about the new Britain. He sighed; the US and their new President did not have the sole rights to small-mindedness and xenophobia, unfortunately. They needed someone inside that AA chapter, an informer. Zaf was an ideal candidate, but there was no time to put him in there and let him gain the confidence of the others. Easter was a few weeks away; by the time Zaf was trusted enough to obtain any useful information it would be too late. Besides, any new faces appearing this close to D-Day would automatically raise suspicion. No, it had to be someone who was already in there – who had been there from before Tu'mah appeared on the scene. He slid his eyes over the list again. These people were all ex-alcoholics or drug addicts; there had to be someone with a skeleton in the closet, who could be manipulated to their will. Problem was that it would take time to do background checks on all these people, and they didn't have any. And then he saw it. He stared at the name for a few seconds, before lifting his head and glancing around the Grid. Harry and Ruth were in his office, focussed on a file as she explained something to him, and Adam snaked out his hand and picked up his phone. It rang five times before someone answered, and he said without preamble, "It's Adam Carter. I need to speak to you. Off the record."

o0o

 _Friday 17 March, morning  
The Grid_

They were gathered in the meeting room and Ruth was briefing them on President Trump's latest gaffe. "His press secretary claims that GCHQ tapped Trump's communications on the behest of Obama."  
Zaf sniggered and Harry looked exasperated, but Jo was new and didn't yet know how things worked. "And did we?" she asked, looking to Harry, but it was Ruth that answered.  
"No. It's utter nonsense."  
"Where did he get his alternative facts from this time?" Harry queried, unable to keep the disdain out of his voice. "That beacon of journalistic excellence known as Fox News? The conspiracy-peddling Breitbart?"  
"Some judge, er-" she shuffled her papers around, "Judge Andrew Napolitano made the claim on Fox News." She lifted her gaze to Harry. "George Enfield requested that the topic be put on the agenda for his discussions with you and Juliet."  
"Of course he did," Harry said gloomily. "But onto things that really matter. What progress with our mystery Syrian in Clapham?"  
Adam took a breath and steeled himself. "We've had a breakthrough." He explained about the connection to the Clapham North AA chapter, and he and Fiona's visit. "There's no time to get one of ours in there. We'll have to use a clean skin, someone already ensconced in the chapter."  
Harry nodded. "Shouldn't be too difficult to find someone with something to hide among a bunch of former addicts," he said blithely, unaware of the coming storm, and Adam became inexplicably solemn.  
"My thoughts exactly," he said before adding resolutely, "and I believe I've found our man." He pressed a button on the remote and the photo of a young man appeared on the screen. "Graham Townsend," Adam added, but Harry did not hear him.

All sound had been sucked from the room the moment he found himself looking into his son's eyes.

 _tbc_


	2. Chapter 2

**PART II: THE PRODIGAL SON**

 _May God defend me from my friends: I can defend myself from my enemies._

 _ **Voltaire**_

 _Friday 17 March, morning  
_ _The Grid_

There was a stunned silence that lasted all of two seconds, before a number of things happened at once. Ruth sucked in a sharp breath and exclaimed "Adam!" and Harry stood so suddenly that his chair scuttled back and banged against the wall.  
"No," he said with chilling emphasis, his eyes focussed on the photo, and Jo, Zaf and Fiona exchanged puzzled looks.  
Adam ignored all of it. "He is ideally placed-"  
"I said no!" Harry was shouting now, and Ruth looked at him worriedly.  
"Adam," she said again, pleadingly, but Adam's focus remained on Harry.  
"The decision is not yours," he said evenly. "Juliet has authorised the operation."  
Harry's gaze snapped to his Section Chief, and Adam was thankful that looks couldn't actually kill but it was a close-run thing. When Harry found no mercy in the blue eyes that held his glare unwaveringly, his gaze moved away, darting from one face to another around the table. Finally it settled on Ruth's features with such desperation that she flinched, before he turned on his heel and stormed out.

Jo watched on, flabbergasted, and once Harry was out of the room she implored, "What is going on?"  
Adam didn't say anything, and it was Ruth that eventually answered. "Graham Townsend is Harry's son," she said, looking at Adam accusingly.  
Jo was dumbstruck. "Jesus, Adam," she gasped, and he turned his cool blue eyes on her.  
"In a few weeks multiple terror attacks could take place in London, and we have an opportunity to get the necessary information to prevent it. It is our duty to do so, regardless of any personal considerations that may be involved." He looked each of them in the eye, testing their resolve, lingering longest on Ruth. "This is happening, and there is nothing Harry can do to stop it. So let's get cracking. Fiona, Jo, go and invite Mr Townsend for a chat. Whilst he is our guest here I want his flat wired – Malcolm and Colin take care of that. Zaf, I want you to nose around Clapham, see if you can find out whether Graham is particularly close to any of the others in the chapter." Lastly he turned to Ruth. "And I want a full background check on young Graham." When she merely stared at the table mutinously he pressed, "Soon as you can," and looked at her until she nodded shortly. "Good, get to it then," he stated and stood.

Fiona fell into step with him as they filed out. She waited until everyone else was out of earshot before saying, "Could you not have broken the news to Harry a bit more tactfully?"  
Adam looked at his wife. "You think there is a tactful way to tell someone that we're going to exploit their son for our own ends?" When she didn't respond he sighed and changed tack. "You think Harry would have bothered with tact if it were anyone else's child?"  
Fiona didn't feel qualified to comment on that – she had been working in this Section for only a few months and didn't know the Section Head well enough to predict what he would do in any particular scenario. Instead she said, "You could at least have forewarned him."  
Adam stopped and turned to face her. "If I had, where do you think Graham would be now?" He looked around to make sure no-one was in earshot before continuing in a low voice. "If anyone warned me that they intended to use Wes in this manner, I would make damn sure that he was as far as possible from here; somewhere he could be of no use to the Service." Fiona looked into his eyes and knew that he was right. Her first impulse upon witnessing Harry's distress had been, _thank God it is not my child_.

o0o

 _Half an hour later_

She found him on the roof. When she stepped through the door he stood at the railing, shoulders slumped, clutching the rail. Ruth hesitated, unsure whether her presence would be welcome, but when he lifted a hand and rubbed his eyes her feet propelled her forward almost involuntarily. Her need to comfort overwhelmed all other consideration, and she cleared her throat when she was a few paces away to alert him to her arrival. Harry glanced briefly at her before resuming his contemplation of the city-scape. She came to a stop next to him and swept her gaze over London, the threat against it looming large in her thoughts. It was their job to protect it – but at what cost?  
"You okay?" she asked, and he took a steadying breath.  
Instead of answering her question he turned to her, and her heart broke at the naked anguish on his face. "Did you know?" he demanded roughly. "Did you all know?"  
"No." She emphasised the word, wanting him to understand that she had no part in this, in something she realised he probably viewed as a betrayal. "Only Adam did."  
He kept her pinned in his gaze, testing the truthfulness of the words, before turning away again. "Graham is not suitable for this," he said stubbornly, and she watched his face carefully.  
When she responded she felt her way gently. The regard of this man had become important to her, perhaps too important, and she did not want to say anything that would damage it. "You thought that about Catherine too, and she turned out to be much stronger than you gave her credit for," she reminded him, and his head snapped round to her.  
"This is different," he said desperately, "Graham is different. He is w-" He checked himself, then amended, "He is fragile."

Ruth continued to regard him steadily. He wasn't sure what he expected to see in her eyes, but there was only compassion. There was no pity, and that was important to him. Harry could not abide the thought that others pitied him. "Because of the addiction?" she asked quietly and he dropped his gaze to his hands, ashamed. He didn't know what of – his son and his weakness, or himself, who had failed the boy so spectacularly? Maybe both. "He has dragged himself out of it," Ruth reminded him, smiling slightly. "That is one of the hardest things to do in life, or so I've read. It shows strength of character, doesn't it?" She saw surprise flicker across his face at her knowledge of the trials of addiction. Did he think that she had snooped on his family? Hastily she explained, "I know someone who is an alcoholic."  
Realisation dawned on Harry. "Oh yes, your step-brother, isn't it?"  
It was Ruth's turn to be surprised, and a little suspicious. But then she realised that he would have had to read her file before giving her the position in his Section. "Yes."  
Something passed between them – a shared pain that neither wanted to express in words, and he marvelled yet again at how comfortable he felt in Ruth's presence. She soothed him, and that was a rare thing in this hard world he inhabited. "But he's only been clean for little more than a year," he found himself saying, "and I've read that recovering addicts should avoid excessively stressful situations in the first two years of recovery." He smiled ruefully. "I'd say being drawn into a terror plot would count as excessively stressful. Wouldn't you?"  
She conceded the point with a dip of the head. Her eyes focussed on his hands, still clamped around the rail, and she fought the impulse to reach out and touch him. "Adam will look after him," she assured, aware of the inadequacy of the platitude even as she uttered the words and Harry huffed indignantly. He began to turn away and she grabbed his arm, holding him in place. "He will, Harry. We _all_ will," she implored, and his gaze returned to her searchingly. She couldn't hide it any longer; she cared, and he could see it plainly in her eyes.

His anger deflated and his shoulders relaxed. "Thank you," he murmured, touched by her resolve. "But that should be _my_ responsibility. I'm his father." He could not hide his self-reproach and she felt for him, knowing that she would have reacted exactly the same in his shoes. It was a trait they shared – this tendency to take responsibility for events that weren't always completely in their control.  
"Yes you are," she responded, smiling gently, "but Graham is no longer a child. He is a grown man, and he should be afforded the opportunity to decide his own destiny."  
Harry sighed. Ruth was one of very few people he knew that could out-reason him. What surprised him, however, was that it didn't bother him in the least. Before he realised what he was doing he reached out and grasped her hand. "You're right. As usual." He smiled into her eyes and it took him a second to recognise the surprised expression in their blue depths, and hastily released her hand. He could have sworn that she was disappointed that he'd done so, but before he could dwell on that the door banged open and Jo appeared.  
"Harry, Juliet Shaw is here," she said, and if she noticed how close her boss and his analyst were standing together, leaning into each other, she did an admirable job of hiding it.

o0o

Juliet waited in Harry's office, arms folded, and watched his progress across the Grid. She observed with interest that his analyst - what was her name; Rhonda? No. Ruth. Ruth Evershed – trailed a few paces behind him. Harry's face was set and she braced herself as he strode into his office and slammed the door shut behind him. She thought it best to pre-empt the coming tirade. "I came here so that you can yell at me on your own turf. So let's get it over with." She sat down on his sofa and crossed her long legs, looking at him challengingly.  
Harry glared at her. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and balled them into fists until he felt his nails gouging into his flesh. "You conspired with my Section Chief behind my back," he accused icily, and she had the decency to look contrite.  
"Yes. Adam thought it best-"  
"My God!" he interjected, his control over his anger slipping, "now you're going to blame it all on him?"  
"No." She watched as he began to pace to and fro in front of the desk. "It was my decision, and I take full responsibility for it." She waited until he came to a stop and faced her again before she continued. "Adam made a compelling case not to forewarn you. He's a father himself, and he was concerned that you would do something drastic if you were told."  
"Christ," Harry muttered, resuming his pacing, "what a steaming load of bollocks."  
Juliet took a breath in an effort to curb her annoyance. It would not do for her to lose her temper as well, then they would get nowhere. "Is it?" she asked shrewdly. "Are you telling me that the moment you heard about your son's involvement, your first impulse was not to warn him, to get him out of our reach?" He cast a baleful look in her direction and she continued, "Because _that_ would be a steaming load of bollocks."

Silence settled on the office as they retreated momentarily to their respective corners. Harry rubbed his forehead wearily and Juliet felt a stab of sympathy. She was fond of him and she didn't enjoy putting him in this position, but it had to be done. And she was certain that deep down he knew that, but his pride would not allow him to give in without a fight. And the least she owed him was to allow him this show of defiance. So she said, "I wanted to put you on enforced leave for the duration of the operation, but Adam argued against it." Harry had swung towards her, face flushed in anger, but she did not wilt in the face of his fury. "So you remain on the Grid for now, but make no mistake: I will suspend you the second I become aware that you are undermining us."  
Harry stared at her with a cynical smile. "I knew your real colours would show eventually," he sniped, but she would not be baited.  
"Don't pretend you would have done any differently, Harry." She held his eyes. "Do we understand each other?"  
"Oh, yes. Perfectly."  
"Good," she said, even though they both knew the words would mean nothing if Graham were ever to be in danger. "Now, the US Intelligence Advisor arrives next week. Shall we go over our approach for the meeting?"

o0o

 _Two hours later_

Fiona led Graham into an interview room and left him there with Jo for company. She joined her husband in the observation booth and they observed the young man through the two-way mirror. "What do you think?" Adam asked without taking his eyes off Harry's son.  
"We told him we were Police, that we required his assistance with a drug-related inquiry. He came along meek as a lamb – frightened out of his skull." She paused before adding quietly, "He's hiding something."  
Adam frowned; this was not good news. "You think he's using again?"  
She shrugged. "Can't say. I'm not an expert on drug addicts, and I don't know Graham. There's no way of telling whether he is acting normally." Her eyes moved to Adam's face. "There is somebody who could probably tell, though."  
"Harry?" Adam said, not bothering to hide his disbelief. "History has shown that he doesn't know his children, Fi."  
Fiona conceded the point. "But he would still know his mannerisms. People don't change those from childhood, unless they are trained to do so. He would know whether the boy is simply nervous or whether there is something more."  
Adam prevaricated, uncertain as to the best course of action, before capitulating. "Fine. Go tell him his son is here and that he can listen in on the interview. And tell Ruth to dig into Graham's police record; perhaps they'd picked him up before."

o0o

Harry stepped into the observation booth with trepidation. His stomach fluttered nervously – something that didn't happen to him often nowadays. Not for the first time he wondered how he had managed to become a stranger to his children. At least Catherine seemed to have forgiven him his failings – they had actually spoken on a number of occasions in the last year. His heart warmed at the recollection. She had turned into quite a wonderful young woman, and he was proud of her even though he knew he could claim no credit for it. But Graham… He had never understood the boy, had struggled to connect with him even as a young child. It was as though they had nothing in common, and as he scrutinised the features of his son now he was hit with the same feeling again. The boy was a mirror image of his mother, and Harry could find little of himself in that face. The marriage had already been in trouble by the time Graham had been conceived, and Harry wondered whether the foetus could have absorbed some of the resentment Jane had felt towards him. Or perhaps that was looking for excuses – maybe the reason they had never connected was simply because Harry had been absent most of the time.

Adam entered the room and Graham straightened in his chair. His hands were clenched together in his lap and his face was pale. But he did not display the tell-tale jitteriness of a user coming off a high and Harry felt a stab of relief. "I don't think he's using," he said quietly, not meeting Fiona's eyes. "Probably just nervous."  
Fiona leaned across and keyed the comms to relay the information to her husband, before retreating again. The situation was rather uncomfortable and she would have preferred to leave Harry alone in the room, but that was not an option. Adam had made it quite clear that they had to keep an eye on their boss at all times, and now it was her turn.

In the interview room Adam stepped over and held out his hand. "Mr Townsend, thank you for coming," he said smoothly.  
Graham eyed the hand suspiciously and did not take it. "You didn't exactly give me an option," he stated flatly.  
Adam ignored the barb and got straight to the point. He wanted to keep the young man off-balance; did not want to give him time to fortify his resolve with righteous anger. "I have a confession to make," he announced, watching Graham closely, "we are not the Police. We are MI-5."  
Harry watched as the remaining colour drained from his son's face and he worried that the boy would faint. His hands balled to fists at his sides and he resisted the urge to step into the next room and throttle his Section Chief. But he did not. For somewhere, buried deep under his anger, was the shameful knowledge that he would have handled the interview the exact same way.

Graham grasped the edge of the table as he stared at the intelligence officer. He should have known, of course. He could trace every black moment in his life back to this place, who had been more important to his father than his children. A red mist descended and he stood, looking around wildly. "Christ. It's him, isn't it?"  
"Sit down," Adam said, but Graham ignored him. His eyes slid to the mirror and he took a step towards it, his face contorted with hatred. "Dad!" he shouted, "I know you're there! You can at least have the courtesy to face me, you fucking coward!"  
Harry's jaw clenched; Graham had always been adept at pushing his buttons, and before reason could intervene his feet took him out of the booth and around to the interview room.  
"Harry!" Fiona called helplessly, but he did not hear her. She lunged for the comms but before she could warn Adam, Harry had stepped through the door behind him and came face to face with his son for the first time in many years.  
"Hello, Graham."

 _tbc_


	3. Chapter 3

**PART III: A CALL TO ARMS**

 _It is not always the same thing to be a good man and a good citizen._

 _ **Aristotle**_

 _Friday 17 March, afternoon  
The Grid_

Harry watched a kaleidoscope of emotion play across his son's face. Out of the corner of his eye he was aware of the exasperated look Adam gave him over his shoulder, but he ignored it. He wondered whether this would count as undermining the operation, whether Juliet would use it to suspend him. But he suppressed that too; the horse had bolted.  
Graham finally settled on righteous anger. "So it _is_ you," he said, eyes bright with fury. "I should have known. Every time something goes wrong you are there, lurking somewhere in the shadows." He refused to give Harry the honour of calling him 'dad' to his face; the man before him was not worthy of that title.  
Harry bristled at the accusation. "Yes of course," he said tetchily, his resolution not to get into a confrontation with Graham promptly forgotten, "it's always somebody else's fault isn't it? You have no responsibility for the mess your life has become."  
Adam observed the exchange carefully. His initial annoyance at Harry barging into the interview dissipated as he observed the open animosity between the two men - perhaps he could get something out of it.  
Graham laughed; a harsh, grating noise. "You know what your problem is?" he demanded. "You still think Catherine and I are children, that you can order us around and control our lives." He leaned forward and stabbed a finger at the table for emphasis. "I am not one of your shady spies. You have no claim over me. So _leave me alone_!"

Harry flinched and Adam felt sorry for him. He hoped that he would never have to hear those words from Wes, and resolved to make more time for his son. When Harry spoke the fight seemed to have gone out of him. His voice was flat and weary, and Graham almost missed the softly spoken words. "I am your father, Graham."  
The words deflated the younger man's anger, but it did not weaken his resolve to hold onto his grievances. He merely said, "No. You are not. Not any longer. You abdicated that right when you abandoned us for your only true love. The Intelligence Service."  
Harry closed his eyes and the look of devastation on his face actually shook Graham. He had finally dared to say the words to his father's face, but it did not bring the feeling of liberation he had expected. He'd thought that saying it would feel good, like a victory. But it did not. Seeing the effect it had on his father, it left him feeling strangely deflated and empty.

Adam judged the time right to step in. "Graham," he said, bringing the attention of both Pearces back to him. "You are not here on your father's orders. You are here on mine."  
Graham looked between the two spooks uncertainly. His father, in his mind, was always the one in charge, the one who pulled the strings. Surely this younger spook could not be the one calling the shots; it had to be a set-up. He was not inclined to believe a single word from either of them, so he waited, not saying anything.  
Adam continued, dropping his bombshell without batting an eye. "I believe you can assist us in preventing a terror attack on London, but _he_ –" he jerked a thumb towards Harry, "did not want you involved." He saw the uncertainty in the young man's eyes as he looked at his father in surprise, and felt like a heel for what he was about to do. But it had to be done. "Because," he added, resolutely not looking at Harry as he did so, "he does not believe you are up to it."

There was a stunned silence and Adam could feel Harry's resentful glare bore into the side of his face. He wondered whether he was irreparably damaging his relationship with his boss, but then he saw again, in his mind's eye, the twisted and broken bodies of those killed by Shining Dawn's bomb not too long ago, and he steeled his resolve. He would do whatever it took to prevent it from happening again.  
Graham smiled, a cynical, bitter smile as he looked at his father, and though he said nothing it was clear that he was not at all surprised by his father's lack of confidence in him. Adam saw it and relentlessly drove the nail home. "But you see, Graham, I do believe in you. I believe you can help us stop this attack by being our eyes and ears in your AA chapter."  
Graham paled and his eyes darted to the younger spook and fastened on his face. "What do you know about my involvement in AA?" he blurted, and in that one question all his self-doubt was laid bare, and Harry's heart broke for his son. How had it come to this? How had his son, his flesh and blood, become a drug addict? Why had he not been able to prevent it? He had failed Graham, and that knowledge brought a lump to his throat. _I'm sorry_ , he wanted to say, but before he could get the words out Adam spoke again.  
"We know you have been attending the Clapham North AA chapter for the last year and a half. And now we need someone in there to tell us what is going on."

Graham's eyes flared. "The AA is a sacred and confidential organisation," he burst out. "Why would I betray it to you people?"  
"Because it's the right thing to do," Adam said with all the conviction Harry had come to expect of him, and he had to admire his Section Chief despite not being particularly happy with him at present.  
"The right thing," Graham parroted bitterly and shook his head. "That's exactly what _he_ would have said," he sniped and pointed at his father. "Do you think because I'm his son I will be the same? Well let me divest you of any delusion – the Newton Principle does not apply to me."  
"The what?" Adam asked, confused, and Graham fastened angry blue eyes on him.  
"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree," he explained impatiently, "and it fell on Newton's head. Just because my father will sell his soul for the Intelligence Service, you expect me to be willing to do the same. But I am not. I believe it is more important to be a good man, and I _will not_ spy on my friends."

Harry watched his son sadly. Only someone who had not seen the horrors of terrorism up close could hold such a world-view and on some level he was thankful that it applied to Graham. But it was naïve, and he knew that this innocence was about to be ripped apart. Without looking at Adam, he spoke softly. "And what if your friends are no longer good men, Graham? Would it be morally acceptable for you to help us then?" Adam glanced at Harry in surprise, before he recovered and gave a nod of respect, aware how much it had cost the older man to utter those words.  
Graham, however, looked increasingly uncertain. His first inclination was still to mistrust everything his father said. "What do you mean?"  
Harry shoved his hands in his pockets and turned away, tacitly handing back control of the conversation to Adam, who understood; Harry would play no further part in convincing his son to enter their dangerous world.  
"Have you seen this man around, Graham?" he asked, pushing the photo of Imad Tu'mah across the table. He observed the younger Pearce closely and saw the flash of recognition as he picked up the photo and looked at it. Graham was not nearly as schooled as his father in hiding his reactions; in that sense he was definitely not a chip off the old block.  
"What's he done?" he asked, evading Adam's question, and the spook let it go.  
"That's what we're trying to find out."  
"Oh I see," Graham said bitingly, looking at his father as he spoke. "Just because he's a Muslim you think he's up to something. Well I won't help you pin anything on him."  
Adam ignored the barb. "I never said he's a Muslim," he stated, eyes intently on the other man's face. "So you _do_ know him."

Graham blushed, embarrassed at how easily he had been outwitted. He was suddenly painfully aware how far out of his depth he was and before he could stop himself looked towards his father for help. But Harry was leaning against the back wall, staring at his shoes, and Graham knew that no help would be forthcoming from that quarter. It was a microcosm of his whole life, he reflected bitterly, before squaring his shoulders and looking Adam in the eye. "I'm not saying anything further until you explain what is going on."  
Adam smiled, pleased by the show of defiance. There was still a back-bone in there somewhere, buried beneath the self-doubt. He nodded, and proceeded to explain about the multiple terror threats against London and Imad Tu'mah's possible involvement. "So you see, the matter is quite urgent. Easter is a few weeks off and we don't have much time." He had the younger Pearce's full attention and he pressed his point home with brutal efficiency. "If this Tu'mah is planning something, he will be going around recruiting converts to Islam among the people attending your AA chapter. He will be offering them redemption through religion, and he will be telling them the ultimate redemption they could obtain is by becoming suicide bombers."  
A look of alarm spread across Graham's face and Adam cocked his head. "You've noticed something like this happening?"  
But Graham would not let go of his loyalty to his friends so easily. "There has been a couple of guys that converted to Islam, yes. But that does not make them terrorists!"

Harry and Adam shared a worried glance before Adam continued. "No it doesn't," he agreed, "but we cannot simply take this on good faith. There is evidence pointing the other way and we have a responsibility to all those possible innocent victims to follow it up. So help us, " he implored, "help us prove your friends innocent. Or if they're not, help us prevent an atrocity."  
Graham hesitated as Kenny's face flashed before his eyes. Kenny, who had been so supportive during his recovery, who had been there to bring him back the one time he had slipped, who had sat with him for three days as he went through the hell of withdrawal. As though sensing this Adam continued, "If we are right they are being brainwashed. But it's not too late – we can help them, we can bring them back from the brink. If _you_ help _us_."  
There was a long silence as the young man processed these words. Eventually he lifted his gaze to his father and asked, "What would you want me to do?"  
Adam felt a thrill of exhilaration; he knew they had him. But it disappeared quickly when he looked over at Harry – the older man had dropped his gaze resignedly, the weight of the world on his shoulders.

o0o

Ruth was not happy. She hated doing this – digging into Harry's past. Well, young Graham's, really, but it amounted to the same thing. The one could not be separated from the other. She scrolled through the documentation that mapped every citizen's progress through life – birth certificate, inoculation and other medical records, school records. Graham had been relatively healthy until he reached his late teens, when presumably the drug addiction began. From then there were sporadic hospitalisations, vaguely described as treatment for 'chest infections', which Ruth assumed was a euphemism for detox. Similarly, his grades were quite good until more or less the same time, before they fell away dramatically. She sighed, saddened by the waste of potential of such a bright young boy, and wondered what had led to the drug use. His parents' divorce? And yet, Catherine had gone through the same experience without losing her way, so was there something else at play? Or was that merely her desire not to blame Harry talking? As she pondered this she kept an eye on another screen, where the software was running through the police records, looking for any mention of Graham and/or Townsend and/or Pearce. It was the second run she was doing, and this one did not search only the official records, but also the site reports submitted by police officers after returning from their patrols. Ruth knew all too well that the official records were sometimes altered – MI-5 had been involved in their fair share of doing so after all, so she did not trust the initial search result that showed only a couple of parking tickets against Graham's name.

As she waited for the search to complete, she scanned the divorce papers briefly, feeling like a voyeur as she did so. Filed by Harry's wife, Jane, she noted. Not Harry. She had stipulated irreconcilable differences as the reason, and asked for custody of the two children. Harry had not disputed it, and had received the standard one-weekend-a-month visitation rights. Thinking about their work schedule she couldn't help but wonder how many times he had cancelled that, and what his children had made of these cancellations. Almost directly after the divorce had come through, Jane had also filed an application to change the children's surnames to her maiden name, Townsend. She had apparently made every effort to erase Harry from their lives as thoroughly as possible, and Ruth felt a stab of sympathy for him. It must have been painful; no wonder he never talked about it. The computer beeped and she turned her attention back to it. It showed a site report that indicated a 17-year old male had been brought in under the influence of controlled substances, who gave his name alternately as Graham Townsend and Graham Pearce. The officer could not confirm whether either of these was correct as the boy had not had any identification on him.

Ruth tapped her pen against her chin thoughtfully. There was no mention of this in the official reports, which means he had either not been charged with anything, or the record had been expunged. Would Harry misuse his position to expunge his son's arrest from the record, she wondered? To her shame she had to admit that she wasn't sure of the answer. She wanted to believe only the best of him, this man who had become so important in her life, but on some level she was aware that he was capable of actions that she would find hard to justify. If he had expunged the record, how would he have done it? By calling in a debt from someone on the Police Force? But that would mean that he would in turn expose himself to possible manipulation, and Harry would not willingly put himself in such a position. There was another option of course – by simply hacking into the Police records and removing it. But there was no way that Harry the Luddite would be capable of that; he would have needed help. She looked around for Malcolm.

o0o

She found him in the forgery suite, conjuring up false documents for Jo. When she closed the door behind her, he looked up curiously. "Hi Ruth. What's up?"  
She wrung her hands together, not quite sure how to broach the subject. "Adam asked me to look into Graham's police record," she began circumspectly, and immediately his expression became guarded. It was a dead give-away and she knew that her hunch had been correct. "I found an anomaly," she continued, going for the direct approach. "Someone has altered the official record."  
"I see," Malcolm responded, trying for nonchalance but not quite succeeding, and Ruth pressed on.  
"What did Harry ask you to do?"  
He looked at her, startled. "Harry? Nothing." When he saw that she didn't believe him he reiterated, "Harry did not ask me to do anything about Graham."  
"Then who did?" Ruth queried, confused. Her theory had been derailed and she wasn't sure how to get it back on track.  
Malcolm's eyes flitted around the suite as though looking for an escape hatch, before he sighed in defeat. "No-one, Ruth. I did it on my own initiative."

The admission caught her by surprise and she appraised him anew. This was something novel to the strait-laced Malcolm she knew. He looked abashed at being caught breaking the rules, but there was also a spark of defiance in his eye that said he would do it again. She took a step closer to him and dropped her voice. "I think you better tell me about it."  
Malcolm hesitated. "If I do, can we keep it between us?" he pleaded, and it was her turn to be caught off-guard.  
"Adam will need to know-" she began, but Malcolm shook his head.  
"I'm not asking to protect myself," he persisted stubbornly. "It's for Harry." That brought her up short, and Malcolm noticed that. "I'm trying to spare his feelings," he explained, and Ruth looked at him sharply. She was now caught between a rock and a hard place; should she do her duty and hurt Harry, or should she listen to her heart and protect him? He came to her mind's eye, standing alone on the roof, his shoulders slumped, and she capitulated.  
If it will have no impact on this current operation, I will keep it between us," she agreed a little shame-faced, and Malcolm nodded in relief. She waited, not saying anything more, and he told his story.

"It was about a year before you joined us. I monitored the police records on a daily basis, looking out for any politicians or Intelligence personnel that did something silly, something that could be of use to us." Ruth nodded; she was doing the same now that she was here. "I noticed it quite by chance; the seventeen year-old brought in under the influence of a controlled substance. I knew about Graham's drug problem – I had picked it up through my monitoring of hospital admission records – so the name triggered an alarm bell." He paused and his gaze slid away from her. "He was picked up in Asherton alley," he continued and Ruth's heart dropped. That alley was notorious; many a prominent politician had been caught with his pants round his ankles and an under-age rent-boy servicing him. Malcolm added quietly, "The initial charge sheet had an added item: solicitation." He looked at her sadly. "I didn't think that was something a father should know about his son. So I got onto my contact in the Police and hinted that Graham was one of our assets. They let him go and I erased the charge-sheet."  
Ruth blinked against the emotion. What a horrid mess. The poor boy; how desperate he must have been to resort to _that_ … And she was eternally grateful to the man in front of her for doing what he did. She nodded and squeezed his shoulder. "Thank you," she murmured, "I will keep it between us." And she walked out, determined that Harry would never find out about this incident.

o0o

 _Interview room_

"All we want you to do is to pay attention to what is going on around you, and to get us the names of the people who have contact with this man," Adam tapped Tu'mah's photo, "and who have begun the process of converting to Islam." He leaned forward to emphasise his next words. "I don't want you to take any chances, to start asking questions that will draw attention to you. Understand?"  
Graham nodded, his eyes on the photo of the Syrian on the table between them. "But what if I could ask those questions without drawing attention to myself?" he asked quietly, and Harry raised his gaze to his son in alarm. It took every ounce of self-control not to intervene.  
Adam, well aware of the sharpened interest from Harry, kept his voice cool and even. "How?"  
The young man smiled wearily and lifted his eyes to Adam. "One of the people you are looking for is Kenny. Kenny Norton. He's my sponsor, and he asked me to consider converting myself."

Adam glanced at Harry. This was an unexpected bonus and he intended to grab it with both hands. But his boss would not like it one bit. "When, Graham? When did he ask you about that?"  
"A couple of weeks ago."  
"And what did you say?"  
Graham shrugged. "I told him I'd seriously think about it. I must still give him a final answer."  
Harry could no longer contain himself. "And are you seriously considering it?" he asked, his voice sharper than he intended, and Graham looked at him mockingly.  
"That would really get your gall, wouldn't it? The son of the great Harry Pearce, bastion of the fight against terrorism, converting to Islam. I might do it for just that reason," he needled, and Harry's face darkened in annoyance. Why was it that the two of them had this uncanny ability to rub each other up exactly the wrong way?  
"Graham," he warned, and there was something in his voice, a note of steel that hadn't been there before, that made Graham watch him uncertainly. That darkness he had always sensed in his father, a hidden capacity for violence – perhaps that was what he had just got a glimpse of, for he sobered and turned back to Adam.  
"No, I'm not seriously considering it," he said flatly, suddenly weary of playing games with his father. "Religion doesn't interest me."  
Adam nodded, satisfied, and very definitely did not look at Harry when he spoke his next words. "Well, you are now. Seriously considering the conversion."

o0o

Ruth lifted her head as Adam strode back onto the Grid. She had come to know his mannerisms by now, and he had that determined glint in his eye and the purposeful step of a man on a mission, and she knew that he had got what he wanted from the younger Pearce. Harry followed in his wake, slower, almost unwillingly, and paused momentarily as he stepped onto the Grid and let his gaze wander over the space as though he was seeing it for the first time. Something akin to despair flitted across his face before he hid it away, and she couldn't help but wonder what the Grid represented to him in that moment. Was he reminded of every innocent he had ruthlessly used to his own ends– No, not his own, she amended. The _country's_ ends. Harry had never doubted the justification of those actions, but things were not as black and white if the innocent was someone you knew, someone you loved. A shadow loomed over her and she blinked, realising that Adam stood in front of her desk.  
"Did you find anything?" he asked, and she looked up at him.  
"Nothing," she lied, shamelessly and seamlessly. "Only a couple of parking tickets."  
Adam's gaze probed her face but found no chink in her armour and he nodded, satisfied. "Good. Listen, do me a favour; take Harry out for a drink or something tonight."

She stared at him, flabbergasted. "I'm sorry?!"  
His eyes twinkled at her mischievously. Adam was no fool, and she realised for the first time that people might have noticed her growing feelings for her boss. She blushed. "I'm not asking you to sleep with him," he continued, smothering a grin, "although that is entirely up to you." Her fingers fiddled with her pen in extreme discomfort and he relented. "Look. I don't think he should be alone tonight. Just keep an eye on him, will you?"  
"I don't need a bloody baby-sitter," Harry's voice cut in icily and Ruth dropped the pen in alarm. Even Adam jumped a little; he had snuck up on them unseen and Ruth wished the ground would open up and swallow her.  
But Adam swiftly rallied. "Well you're getting one. It can either be a burly stranger instructed to tackle and handcuff you if you step out of line, or it can be Ruth. Your choice."  
The two men glared at each other and Ruth could practically smell the testosterone, and for a moment she feared Harry would lose it and punch his Section Chief. She actually saw his fist bunch, but he reined himself in with a supreme effort. "Fine," he snapped. "Ruth, get your coat. We're going for a drink." With that he swung on his heel and marched off to his office to collect his own coat.

o0o

By the time Ruth came to grips with the situation she found herself in the lift, standing next to Harry. He was still fuming silently and she shuffled her feet uncomfortably. He glanced at her and sighed. "Don't worry, I won't force you to spend an evening in my company," he said, his voice carefully devoid of emotion, "I'll drop you home and tomorrow we'll both tell Adam what a good time we had together."  
"…Oh," she responded, disappointment knifing through her, and he looked at her in surprise. Did she actually want to go for a drink with him? The thought was comforting, dangerously so, and the alarm bells started clanging again in his head, loudly and insistently. He blithely ignored them.  
"I am going for a drink, though, if you wanted to…?" he ventured hesitantly, and it was her turn to look at him in surprise. For the first time that day she saw something other than despair or anger on his face, and she was incapable of dashing it.  
"I want to," she murmured and they stared at each other, aware of a crossing of some line in that moment. Not quite as momentous as the Rubicon, perhaps, but it was up there. Then the lift pinged and the doors slid open, and they walked out together, shoulders brushing.

 _tbc_


	4. Chapter 4

**PART IV: A MAN'S FAILINGS**

 _Sometimes we are less unhappy in being deceived by those we love, than in being undeceived by them._

 _ **Voltaire**_

 _Friday 17 March, evening  
London_

A drink had somehow turned into dinner and they found themselves in a cosy Italian restaurant a couple of blocks from Thames House. Not that Ruth was complaining; she was ravenous and had not exactly been looking forward to the pub fare she had believed to be her lot. Instead Harry had brought her here, and the wonderful aroma coming from the kitchen made her mouth water. He ordered a bottle of Chianti and she watched appreciatively as the waiter poured the rich red liquid into her glass. When at last they were alone she lifted her glass and took a sip, suddenly aware how much like a date this was. The thought made butterflies flutter in her stomach and she hoped that the wine would dampen her nerves before Harry noticed. However, when she looked over at him, his gaze was fastened on his own glass, melancholy and troubled. An awkward silence ensued as she searched in vain for something to say, anything that would make him feel better. He became aware of her scrutiny and lifted his eyes to hers with a contrite smile. "Sorry," he said, "I'm not exactly good company tonight." He took a breath and added, not without bitterness, "No man likes to be reminded of his failings, I suppose."  
She didn't quite know what to say to that, so instead she asked, "Would you like to talk about it?"  
He quirked an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth twitched as he asked in turn, "About my failings? Most certainly not."  
Ruth had to smile at that; it was not what she had meant and she was certain that he knew that, but at least he had not lost his sense of humour. Glad of the spark of enjoyment that had come back into his eye, she played along. "What a pity."  
His smile broadened and he picked up his glass and clinked it against hers in a wordless toast. She wasn't sure what they were toasting, but she revelled in her ability to draw him out of his funk.  
"It's funny," he said out of the blue, eyes the colour of amber in the candlelight, "this isn't how I pictured taking you to dinner for the first time," and casually took a sip of wine as though he had not just uttered the most momentous words he had ever said to her.

She stared at him, flabbergasted. Harry Pearce had apparently been picturing asking her out, taking her to dinner. _Her_ , Ruth Evershed. What was she supposed to make of that? She knew what she _wanted_ to make out of it – that he apparently fancied her as well (!), but she was scared of jumping to conclusions. Harry was a smooth operator, perhaps he was simply playing her. Maybe this was how he talked to all the women he took to dinner. The silence stretched between them again and she noticed a glimmer of panic in the depth of those eyes, and she began to wonder whether the comment had been genuine, and whether he now worried that he'd gone too far. She hastened to allay his fears. "No? How, er, how did you picture it then?" Her voice was tight with nerves, and some part of her that seemed to stand to the side and watch the two of them fumble their way through this flirtatious conversation, wanted to laugh. They seemed hopelessly out of practice at this sort of thing.  
"Well," Harry responded, relief flooding his gaze as his fingers toyed with the stem of his glass and his voice dropped an octave, "for one thing I pictured myself being suave and articulate as I asked you out, and then taking you somewhere more glamorous than this."

 _Ookay_ , she thought, caught under the spell of his voice, his eyes, his words. _Maybe only one of us are out of practice_. Harry certainly knew how to use his charm to maximum effect. But then he added, with a self-deprecating and somewhat uncertain grin, "That is if you were to accept, of course," and she felt like kissing him. There was no entitlement here, no arrogant expectation that she couldn't possibly refuse him, and she adored him for it. She couldn't keep the smile off her face as she said, "Suave _and_ articulate? How could a girl refuse?", and his eyes darkened with instant desire.  
"Ruth," he murmured, her name falling like an endearment from his lips, and she was certain that he would have taken her hand if the waiter hadn't appeared at that very moment with their food. Unfortunately he seemed to bring a dose of reality along with it, and they retreated from the personal nature of their conversation as they ate. It was the right thing, though – they had been moving too fast, and yet she could not completely suppress her disappointment. Hopefully there would be other nights like these and who knows, in time there might be a night where reality would not intrude at all.

o0o

 _Saturday 18 March, afternoon  
The Grid_

Their Saturday was taken up by preparations for the operation. All hands were on deck on the Grid, Harry as well. Their boss was a subdued, disapproving presence, and Ruth's gaze constantly sought him out, checking whether he was all right. She couldn't help it; his welfare had suddenly become of prime importance to her, and she acknowledged that after their dinner she no longer had a mere crush on Harry; she was properly smitten. He had proven to be a wonderful companion. There had been none of his office bluster, his self-assurance that sometimes bordered on arrogance, or throwing around of his weight. Instead he had been gentle, humorous and deferential to her needs. Halfway through the night she had realised that she was experiencing something rare, that he was allowing her to see the man behind the façade, and it moved her deeply. How could she not fall head over heels in love with him? And yet… A part of her remained guarded. It was a matter of self-preservation. Ruth had determined long ago, after watching her mother and stepfather's troubled relationship, that love was dangerous, that it had the power to destroy as well as delight. And that it was better to always hold onto a part of your heart. That way there was something to build on if it got broken. It had never been a problem, in her previous relationships, to keep this resolve. But she suspected that this time might be different. With Harry, it would be a struggle to keep back a part of her. And that thought frightened her more than she cared to admit. Should she rather walk away now, while she still had the will to do so? She conjured him up, golden-haired and amber-eyed in the candlelight, expertly twirling the linguini around his fork, and her resolve weakened. Perhaps it was already too late to walk away. A shadow fell across her and she looked up into Adam's face. "I need you to give Graham a crash course in Islam," he instructed, and she nodded wordlessly. As she gathered her things, her eyes slid once more to Harry, isolated in his glass cage, to find his gaze on her as well. He smiled involuntarily and she reciprocated, warmed by the lightening of his features at the sight of her. Once again she became aware of her impact on him – she could influence his mood with her mere presence, and the thought gave her pause. Could it be that, for the first time in her life, there was a man who was more helplessly in love with her than she was with him? She followed Adam across the Grid, pondering this revelation and the sense of power that came with it.

o0o

Ruth found herself face to face with Harry's son for the first time. It was a strange feeling. Harry had always seemed so… unencumbered, she finally settled on. A man so fully forged for the spy trade, that she had found it difficult to picture him in a domestic milieu, changing nappies and soothing crying children. But after the previous night she realised, to her surprise, that the vision came easier. There was a part of him, carefully locked away behind his immaculate suits, his world-weary cynicism, that could love deeply and unconditionally and that would be devastated if anything happened to Graham. It was a sobering thought.

They were joined by Jo and Zaf, brimming with youthful enthusiasm, and it was in stark contrast to the withdrawn young man before them. "Jo here," Adam said to Graham, "is moving into your apartment building. She is about to become your new girlfriend, and will be your main contact with us."  
Graham balked. "Wait a minute – you want me to sleep with her?!" The thought was apparently not entirely unattractive despite his indignation, as he eyed her appreciatively even as he uttered the words. Rather, it seemed that it was the fact that he was being ordered to do so that appalled him. Zaf smirked and winked at Jo, who rolled her eyes at him.  
"Actually," Ruth interjected dryly, "Islam frowns on sexual relations out of wedlock, so you'll have a good excuse to keep the relationship chaste." She tried not to think about the fact that she was discussing sex with the son of the man she'd had some singularly non-chaste dreams about. Thankfully she couldn't see much of his father in him – maybe something about the mouth, but otherwise he could be anybody's child. Even the blond hair was somehow different, and it took her a few seconds to place it. Graham's hair did not threaten to curl the moment it was left longer than a few inches. He seemed to be, in looks as well as temperament, the mirror image of his mother.  
Graham nodded, relieved, and Adam continued. "Zaf will be your second contact. He will be flipping patties at the Burger King across the road from the community centre, so you can reach him there if Jo is unavailable for some reason. Now, this is Ruth. She's going to give you a crash course in Islam, so pay attention. It would strengthen your claim that you want to convert if it appears as though you've done some reading on the subject." With that the others trooped out, and Ruth found herself alone with Graham.

He contemplated her frankly and Ruth had to fight the urge to squirm under his direct blue gaze. "You're a spook too?" he asked curiously, and she belatedly remembered his aversion to anything related with his father's occupation.  
"A desk-spook," she confirmed, and when he frowned she clarified, "I'm an analyst."  
Graham absorbed that. "I take it you're the resident expert on all matters Muslim," he concluded, reminding her that there was nothing wrong with his intellect.  
"Yes, I suppose so," she said, and he smiled cynically, as though she had confirmed some privately held belief of his.  
"So he could not even be bothered to find a real Muslim. That figures," he shot back, before goading, "I bet you don't even speak Arabic."  
Ruth felt her cheeks flush at the insult, even though some part of her realised that it was a performance for his father, who he probably believed to be watching somewhere. Unable to resist, she said, " _Jysh mn al'aghman yaquduh 'asadu hasimat jysh mn al'aswad biqiadat alkhiraf_ ," staring him down until he dropped his gaze, suitably chastened.  
"I'm going to assume that was an insult," he responded by way of apology but to his surprise she shook her head.  
"It means: an army of sheep led by a lion would defeat an army of lions led by a sheep."  
He looked at her in confusion, and she made an effort to keep her voice even as she continued. "If by 'he' you meant your father, you should know that he is very good at what he does. He does not settle for second-best, so if there were someone more suited to be the expert I would not be here." The moment she finished speaking she regretted it. She should not have risen to the bait; all it had accomplished was to show the young man before her the high regard she held his father in. "So what do you know about Islam?" she pressed on hastily, but she did not miss the glint of suspicion in his eye as he backed off and settled down to the matter at hand.

o0o

Harry watched the images of Ruth speaking to his son uneasily. He did not have audio but even without it Graham's hostility was plain to see. He felt a flash of anger – how could anyone be hostile towards Ruth? She was good and gentle and he chafed at his son's impertinence, until he realised – Graham associated Ruth with _him_ , with everything he hated about his father. _He_ was to blame for Graham's hostility towards Ruth, no-one else. The melancholy rose in his chest until it threatened to overwhelm him, and he pushed away from the desk and strode over to the drinks tray. He poured a healthy measure of Scotch into a glass, and just as he was about to take the first mouthful his door slid open uninvited and Adam stepped through.  
"When will you bloody learn to knock?" Harry growled irritably even as he lifted the glass in an unspoken invitation.  
Adam nodded and spoke as Harry poured another for his Section Chief. "Everything is in place," he said, and explained about the various roles of Jo and Zaf. They both knew that Adam had no obligation to keep Harry in the loop, that it was a courtesy, and Harry listened without comment as they settled across the desk from each other. "Ruth is giving him a crash-course in Islam now," Adam concluded and Harry took a large gulp of the fiery liquid.  
"You seem to think you have all the angles covered," he said and Adam hesitated as he watched his boss.  
"I will do everything in my power to protect him, Harry," he vowed fervently and the elder Pearce looked at him sadly.  
"Yes, thank you, Adam. But we both know from personal experience that operations do not always go according to the script." He tossed back the rest of the drink and stared forlornly at the empty glass, and Adam's heart went out to him.  
"If there were any other way…" He trailed off and Harry managed to raise a wan smile. He nodded at his officer and Adam drained his own glass and carefully placed it on Harry's desk. "Thanks for the drink," he said, before leaving the older man to his troubled thoughts.

o0o

 _Wednesday 22 March, evening  
Clapham North community hall, AA meeting_

Graham was jittery. It reminded him, rather unpleasantly, of the feeling he'd got when coming off one of his milder highs during the days he still used, but this time the cause of the sensation was entirely natural. This time it was due to nerves and adrenaline. His eyes kept sliding to Kenny, seated two rows in front of him, as he jiggled his leg impatiently, waiting for the final speaker to finish. He became aware that the guy sitting next to him eyed him curiously and made a conscious effort to still his leg and to relax. The man probably thought he'd fallen off the wagon. Oh well. Nothing he could do about that. Trying to explain would only raise further suspicion. There was a smattering of applause and he realised that the evening's proceedings had come to a merciful end. He bolted from the chair and made a bee-line for his sponsor, eager to claim his attention before anyone else could. "Kenny, mate," he said as soon as he was in earshot and the young man turned round and smiled at him.  
"Hi Graham, all right?" he responded amiably and some of Graham's nervousness dissipated.  
"Yeah fine, thanks. Listen, um, I was wondering if we could talk?"  
Kenny's attention sharpened and he scanned Graham anxiously. Every sponsor's first thought to such a request always turned to a relapse. "Of course," he said immediately and motioned to the chairs they had just vacated.  
But Graham shook his head. "Not here. Do you mind if we go across the road to the Burger King?" he asked as casually as he could, but fiddled nervously with his jacket zipper as he did so, and Kenny nodded.

Back on the Grid Adam watched the feed with some concern – the younger Pearce was not exactly a natural, and he worried that his nerves might give the game away right off the bat. He could only hope that Kenny would put it down to the decision to convert, and nothing else.  
"Changing over to the Burger King audio feed," Colin said next to him as Adam became aware of another presence in the room. He glanced over his shoulder to see Harry standing inside the door, his eyes taking in the various screens on which cctv footage flickered uninterrupted.  
"You wired Graham?!" he demanded, alarmed, and Adam quickly shook his head.  
"No. Too risky. We wired the community hall, the Burger King, and Graham and Jo's flats," he explained. "Graham will try to ensure that most of the important conversations occur in one of these places."  
Harry said nothing, but remained planted where he was, and Adam did not have the heart to tell him to leave. He turned his attention back to the screen in front of him.

Kenny and Graham were seated in a booth with a cup of coffee each and Colin twiddled with some knobs until their words came through nice and clear.  
"Everything okay?" Kenny asked, concern etched on his face and Graham smiled reassuringly.  
"Yeah, I haven't fallen off the wagon, if that's what you mean."  
"Okay. Good," Kenny responded, his relief evident. "So what did you want to talk about then?"  
Graham took a steadying breath. "I've been thinking about your offer. To convert to Islam. I want to do it," he said, and Adam could sense Harry tense behind him. There was no going back now; Graham was inextricably entangled in their web of espionage and only the conclusion of the operation could free him from it.  
Kenny seemed taken aback; this was apparently not the answer he had expected from Graham. "I see," he responded slowly, watching his charge carefully. "Are you sure?"  
"Yeah," Graham answered immediately, but Kenny was not entirely convinced.  
"This isn't a decision to take lightly, Graham. You can't do this half-arsed, you know. It's a life-changing commitment."  
"I know." Graham tilted his head and frowned, the mannerism so like his father's that it caught Adam momentarily off-guard. "What's the matter? Don't you want me to convert any more?" he asked, a note of petulance creeping into his voice, and just like that the similarity to Harry disappeared again.  
"No, no," Kenny hedged, "it's just that you've always been pretty dismissive about religion. What's changed?"  
Adam shifted uncomfortably; this was a crucial moment in the operation. If the young man stuffed this up, he would never be trusted enough to reach the inner circle, and the operation would fail. The spook cursed himself for not thinking of this eventuality – he should have prepared Graham for the question. His anxiety increased tenfold as Graham hesitated for long seconds.  
"He's bottling it," Adam said quietly. "Tell Zaf to rescue him," he ordered Colin, but as the techie reached for the comms Harry interrupted from behind.  
"Wait."

Colin's hand hovered over the button uncertainly, and time seemed to slow down as they waited with baited breath for Graham to respond.  
Eventually he did. He let out a long sigh and said, "Okay, look. I recently ran into my old man. He was his usual toxic self, and it reminded me. He has no time for religion – he thinks it's a form of weakness. And look where it's got him. He's not exactly a shining example of a good human being, is he? In fact, he's one of the worst I've ever met." Graham's vehemence grew with every word; he either meant every single one of them or he was an incredible actor, and Adam was acutely aware of Harry's presence behind him. Neither he nor Colin dared to make eye contact; they kept their eyes strictly to the front. The younger Pearce took a steadying breath after the outburst and continued more quietly, "I don't want to end up like him. I want to be a man my kids can one day be proud of."

Behind them Harry turned and left without a word, and Adam looked at Colin.  
"Shit," he said. He briefly considered going after Harry, but what could he possibly say? They saw Kenny smile and nod, and he knew that the operation was off and running. But at what cost?

 _tbc_


	5. Chapter 5

**PART V: FOR QUEEN AND COUNTRY**

 _The first method for estimating the intelligence of a ruler is to look at the men he has around him._

 _ **Niccolò Machiavelli**_

 _Wednesday 22 March, evening_

 _The Grid_

Ruth lifted her head and watched Harry walk back to his office. He seemed to be in a daze and for once he did not meet her eyes across the Grid, and she was caught unawares at how much this unsettled her. She had become used to it, to him seeking her out as soon as he entered. She watched as he went straight to his drinks tray and poured a large measure of Scotch into a glass, which he promptly gulped down before refilling it and taking the glass back to his desk. It was only once he'd sat down and drained half of the second drink that he looked up, towards her. There was a storm of emotion swirling in his eyes and she had to fight the urge to jump to her feet and hurry into his office. She was not his girlfriend, she reminded herself sternly; she could not drop everything and rush to his side every time he seemed a little off-kilter. She had to finalise the ledger for his meeting with Juliet and the American Intelligence Advisor for the next day, and Harry would be the first to point out to her that the work takes preference above all else. But he looked so wounded, so lost, that she was about to get up and go to him anyway when he moved first. He drained the second glass, got to his feet and grabbed his coat, and before she could move he was through the pods and away without another look in her direction. Anxiety balled in her chest – what on earth had happened?

She saw Adam come from the surveillance suite and look towards Harry's office, before he turned to her. "Where's Harry?" he asked worriedly, and it only increased her anxiety.  
"He just left."  
"Did he say where he was going?"  
She shook her head. "What's going on?"  
Adam beckoned his wife over before responding. "Graham's in. Kenny agreed to take him along to their next conversion meeting with the Syrian. It will take place in two days' time at the Brown Street mosque in Clapham. Fi, you and Zaf need to get in there beforehand and wire the place."  
Ruth listened wordlessly. So there was no turning back now. Graham was in it up to his neck. Was that what had disturbed Harry so much? She was about to ask when Fiona got there before her.  
"Harry seemed a bit put out – did anything happen to upset him?"  
Adam glanced at Ruth, then sighed. "Yeah." He briefly relayed what Harry's son had said to his sponsor and Ruth's concern increased tenfold. Poor Harry. No wonder he looked so devastated. She waited until the two Carters moved off before reaching for the phone, drumming her fingers on the desk as she waited for Harry's security officer to pick up.  
"Hello Mark? It's Ruth- Well, thank you. I may need to find Harry, er, Mr Pearce later tonight. Will you keep tabs on him for me? Thanks." She put down the phone and resolutely bent to her work, trying to suppress the worry gnawing at her stomach.

o0o

 _One hour later_

Ruth was typing furiously when her phone rang. Annoyed at the interruption, she glanced at the display and saw that it was Mark, and immediately dropped what she was doing. "Hello?" she answered apprehensively. Had Harry given him the slip again? He tended to do that when he was in a bad mood.  
"Hi Ruth," Mark said breathlessly, and she struggled to catch his words over the background noise. "I need your help."  
She half-stood, alarmed. "What's happened?" she asked anxiously and was aware of Fiona's head lifting and watching her.  
"It's Mr Pearce. He's in the _Cricketer_ 's. He's… well… a bit drunk, and I can't get him to leave."  
Ruth closed her eyes. "Okay, I'll get some help to you," she promised and rang off, before looking around helplessly. The Grid was deserted apart from her and Fiona.  
"Harry?" Fiona asked, and Ruth nodded, too distracted to notice that her colleague automatically assumed that Ruth would be called if there was something the matter with their boss. "Go," the other woman said. "Give me your report and tell me what still needs to be done – I'll finish it for you."  
Ruth's gratitude knew no bounds and she was out the door in a matter of minutes.

o0o

 _Cricketer's pub_

She entered and stood for a moment, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior, before threading her way through the labyrinthine lay-out of the old pub. Her ears were assaulted by a hubbub of voices and intermittent raucous laughter, and she briefly pondered why alcohol always led to so much noise. The resultant lessening of inhibitions, she supposed. Harry was in one of the smaller rooms, sat alone at a corner table with his back to the wall. Ever the spook. Mark was seated at a table near the door from where he could keep an eye on both his charge and the entrance, and when she caught his eye he gave her a relieved smile.

She moved over to a somewhat dishevelled Harry. Well, as dishevelled as she'd ever seen him. His tie and the first two buttons of his shirt was undone, and he was in shirtsleeves, the cuffs rolled back halfway up his arms. There was an empty glass on the table in front of him and he looked up blearily when she approached. "Another, please miss," he said, before he registered that she was not the barmaid. "Oh. Sorry." He tried to straighten up. "Thought you were the bearer of the magic elixir."  
She smiled despite herself. Apparently even a drunk Harry could be pompous. "Would that be the magic elixir that makes one forget one's troubles?" she queried as she sat down opposite him, and a shadow crossed his face. He stared down into the empty glass and she reached out and touched his arm. His skin was soft and warm. "Are you all right?"  
He lifted unfocussed eyes to hers and shook his head slowly. "No. I am not all right." A sober Harry would never have admitted this, she knew, and before she knew what she was doing her hand had curled around his arm and squeezed it in an effort to comfort him. It was the most physical contact there had ever been between them and his gaze moved to her hand in surprise, and before she could withdraw it he covered it with his own and held it in place. "How did I bugger things up so badly?" he asked, his thumb absently tracing over her skin. She said nothing, certain that it was a rhetorical question, and just watched him with compassion as he contemplated their joined hands with something akin to wonder. There was a foot-fall behind her and she looked round to see the barmaid approach with another whisky, and shook her head emphatically at the girl. Her smile faltered and she retreated, not daring to challenge the authority of the newcomer. Harry looked up at Ruth suddenly and gripped her hand tightly. "I wanted to kiss you goodnight the other night. After our dinner," he abruptly declared and she stopped breathing. _He's drunk_ , she reminded herself, but she could not quite squash the flash of heat his words sent to her core. "But my courage deserted me." His eyes searched her face, looking for something to hold onto. "Would you have let me, Ruth?" he asked, catching her off-guard, and her gaze slid from his.  
"Now's not the time. You're upset-" she hedged, and he interrupted harshly.  
"Then when? When will it ever be the time?" She stared at him, surprised at the vehemence in his voice, and her obvious discomfort belatedly made him register, even through the fog of alcohol, the impertinence of his words and actions and he let go of her hand. He picked up the glass again and looked into it as though hoping it would have magically filled itself up, then plonked it down ungraciously once he realised it was empty. "I need another drink," he declared, looking beyond her shoulder for the barmaid, and she recognised it as a clumsy attempt to change the topic.  
"Let's get you home," Ruth said hastily as he appeared to gear himself up to bellow for some service, "you can have a drink there, can't you?"  
His gaze returned to her face and he blinked slowly; the alcohol was really beginning to take effect now. "You'll join me?" he asked, still managing to display a bit of his old charm despite his inebriated state, and she smiled.  
"Yes, thank you." Anything to get him out of here and into the car.  
He nodded, pleased, but even that simple gesture was made with exaggerated care as his coordination began to desert him. He managed to get to his feet, but once upright he swayed and had to steady himself by holding onto the table. Ruth moved round and took firm hold of his arm before guiding him towards the door, nodding at Mark, who slipped out before them to fetch the car. They managed to get him into the backseat without incident and Mark had barely joined the stream of traffic before Harry was asleep, his head slumped against the window.

o0o

 _Thursday 23 March, 09:00  
The Grid_

Harry stepped through the pods at nine o'clock on the dot, and Ruth cast a critical eye over his appearance. Thankfully he looked none the worse for wear, apart from a greyish tinge to his skin. He was, as always, impeccably groomed and she heaved a silent sigh of relief. Once they had reached his house the previous night, she had managed to cajole him out of his stupor and into his house without too much trouble, where he promptly collapsed on the sofa. She had contained herself to taking off his shoes and covering him with a blanket, and left him to sleep it off. It was only once Mark had dropped her off at her own house that she'd realised she hadn't checked whether he used his phone as an alarm clock, because if he didn't, it would be up in his bedroom and he would sleep through it. And he had a meeting with Juliet at ten. But at least he was here, looking relatively alert; she supposed that he had years of experience with the periodic abuse of hard liquor and had become somewhat immune to the after-effects. Her report was ready – she had checked Fiona's work early this morning and was happy with it, but she did not immediately follow him to his office. It was somewhat awkward – how much did he remember of their conversation the previous evening, she wondered? Did he remember confessing that he'd wanted to kiss her? And that she hadn't really answered him when he'd asked if she would have let him? She watched out of the corner of her eye as he stepped into his office and tugged off his gloves, before depositing them in his coat pocket. The coat was hung up meticulously on the clothes rack in the corner before he turned his head and caught her eye, and beckoned her with a single tilt of the head. She gathered the report and walked over.

o0o

"The report for your meeting with the American," she said in lieu of a greeting and held up the folder. He nodded and held out his hand for it, not quite meeting her eyes.  
"Thank you."  
She continued to hover in front of his desk, clutching a second folder, and he glanced at it fleetingly before finally looking up at her. "Was there something else?" he asked, and her heart sank.  
"I've done a second report," she stated, holding out the file, and he watched her speculatively.  
"Why?"  
"It's a sanitised version of the original," she explained. "In case you decide not to share anything classified with the new American administration."  
A smile flickered across his lips as he took it from her, and some of the awkwardness dissipated from the room. "Thank you." He tapped a finger on it and she could almost see the cogs working in that devious mind of his as he said, "This may come in handy.  
Warmed by the thrill of vindication, she turned to leave when he spoke again.  
"I apologise for last night," he blurted, his voice turning formal, and she froze. "Mark should not have called you – you are my analyst, nothing more," he forged on, and a feeling of desolation wrapped around her heart. "I'll make sure it doesn't happen again," he finished, and she could not look at him, knowing he would read the devastation she felt in her eyes. He obviously remembered; he'd expressed a desire to kiss her and she had held back, refusing to confess her own, similar desire, and he had taken that as a tacit rejection. He was withdrawing from her, and she felt bereft. It was all she could do to nod and flee from the office.

Harry sighed heavily and fell back in his chair, then regretted it immediately as the sudden movement made his lingering headache stab at his eyes. He should know better at his age. You cannot drown your sorrows in whisky, and you cannot date young women that worked for you. Sooner or later it bit you in the arse. It was better to nip it in the bud now, before it was too late and people got hurt. _But it was already too late_ , an insidious voice warned him. _You're already hopelessly besotted with her, and it already hurts like hell to let her go_. He stared at the two folders lying on his blotter despondently, allowing himself a few seconds to wallow in his heartache before he stood and grabbed the second folder. _Life must go on_. Into the breach once more.

o0o

 _JIC Offices_

Harry sat quietly as Juliet read the report, his mind wandering. Tomorrow Graham would step into the lion's den and worry gnawed at him. He hated not being in control of the operation. There had been times in the last few years when he'd wished that someone else could make the hard decisions, but now he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he wouldn't cope with it. It might be arrogant, but he believed that he was the best person to fill his position and he had no intention of stepping back for anyone. Being forced to do so now was particularly galling because of his considerable personal interest in the operation. His head throbbed dully and he massaged his temples in an effort to relieve the pressure; hopefully the painkillers would kick in before the American arrived. He wasn't sure he could cope with the usual American bluster on top of his headache. As he gloomily contemplated the pending arrival of the emissary from across the pond, Juliet looked up sharply.  
"What is this?" She waved the report in the air and Harry suppressed a stab of pleasure.  
"It's the report on our current counter-terrorism operations," he replied and her face clouded in annoyance.  
"There's nothing in here that they couldn't read on the Internet," she complained and Harry smirked.  
"Well, it should be right up the new American administration's alley, then," he responded with evident satisfaction, and Juliet lost patience.  
"For God's sake," she snapped, "you're acting like a child. Just because Trump morally offends you-"  
"We should _all_ be morally offended by him!" he interrupted. "Are you saying you're not?!"  
"Oh for-" She threw her hands in the air in surrender. "Of course he offends me. But I am also a realist, and we need the Americans. So enough with this wilful obstruction – I expect your full cooperation during the meeting."  
Harry pouted obstinately. He was not about to be intimidated by Juliet. "And what, pray tell, do we need George Enfield in particular for? I'm all for continued cooperation with the CIA, but I cannot see why we should give this man, this political appointee, any classified information. He has no Intelligence credentials and even his own side thinks he's a joke."  
She was saved from responding by her PA, who announced the arrival of the American over the intercom. "Send him through," Juliet instructed, and with a last warning look at Harry she moved to the door to welcome him.

o0o

George Enfield proved to be the archetypal southerner, and the broad accent grated on Harry's ear. But as instructed, he minded his manners and kept his mouth shut for most of the meeting, allowing Juliet to run with it. Matters went relatively smoothly until Juliet handed over the sanitised report and Enfield flicked through it. "I expected something much thicker," he commented and Harry saw his chance.  
"I didn't want to over-tax your President's limited intelle-" he began, and Juliet glared at him sharply, "-intelligence time," he amended innocently, and Enfield nodded in approval.  
"Fantastic. This new administration is all about whittling things down to the most important facts."  
"That's wonderful, then," Juliet said hastily, getting in there before Harry had a chance to comment on the definition of what a fact actually was.  
"Now, Hairy," Enfield continued, turning to the British spook who had a somewhat pained expression at the wrangling of his name by that broad accent, "I have a favour to ask." He dropped his voice conspiratorially. "I am in town for the next few days, and I was hoping to experience some of the _local flavour_." Harry watched him suspiciously, not liking the inflection he gave to the final two words and Enfield smirked, knowing that the other man had picked up on his subliminal message. "For instance, I have never been to a traditional English pub," he continued, now including Juliet in the conversation, "and I was hoping that you could take me to one."  
Harry couldn't think of anything worse. "I don't think you'll like it," he responded, promptly abandoning even the veneer of civility towards the American, "we don't employ scantily clad young girls with large breasts as waitresses as a rule."  
Juliet gave him an annoyed look. "Harry will be delighted to entertain you," she overruled him, and just like that his fate was sealed. But he was not about to go down alone. Smiling sweetly, he said, "Yes of course, we _both_ would be delighted," before shaking Enfield's hand.

o0o

 _The Grid_

He came through the pods just as Ruth walked past and she took one look at his morose expression before saying, "It didn't go well then?"  
"Oh it went swimmingly," he replied, the words dripping with sarcasm as he fell into step with her. "Enfield is as well-endowed in the grey matter department as his illustrious leader," he stated with contempt, and she suppressed a smile. However, it was summarily wiped from her face as he added, "Do we still have Jennifer on the books?"  
She looked at him in surprise. "Jennifer? The, er-"  
"Prostitute, yes," he supplied when she hesitated, and she nodded wordlessly.  
"Good," he said and she glanced at him sharply, and he faltered when he realised she might be getting the wrong idea. "Enfield wants to experience the 'local flavour'," he explained hastily, simulating quotation marks in the air, and Ruth frowned.  
"Is that a euphemism for…?" She trailed off uncomfortably and he couldn't help himself; she was so endearing when she became all awkward about sex that he couldn't resist teasing her a little bit.  
"Yes, Ruth," he said as he stopped and turned to her, "on the diplomatic circuit it is a well-known euphemism for sex with a prostitute." He paused, then added without batting an eye, "MI-5 is about to play the pimp for the new Intelligence Advisor to the President of the United States of America."  
"Right," she muttered, flustered. "Can't remember seeing that in the job description."  
He laughed, delighted by her, the morning's awkwardness momentarily forgotten. "Indeed. Makes you proud to serve your country, doesn't it?"  
That won a small smile from her, and he felt himself falling into her eyes once more. How easily she took over his mind, his senses. What was he going to do? How was he going to let her go? He became aware that he was gazing at her and quickly turned his head to look across the Grid. "Can you ask her to meet us in the _Cricketer_ 's tonight? About eight? Oh, and Enfield's staying at the _Four Seasons_ – tell Malcolm and Colin to get over there and install surveillance. You never know when a few pictures of him _in flagrante delicto_ might come in handy," he finished with grim satisfaction. With that he walked off and she looked after him, her heart somehow lighter. He was not shutting her out, and the thought made her smile. There was hope after all.

 _tbc_


	6. Chapter 6

**PART VI: A SEED OF DOUBT**

 _There are two ways to be fooled. One is to believe what isn't true; the other is to refuse to believe what is true._

 _ **Søren Kierkegaard**_

 _Thursday 23 March, 19:30  
The Cricketer's pub_

Harry was not having a good time. In fact, that might actually be the understatement of the century. He was squashed around a small table with Enfield and Juliet, and the normal hubbub of a busy pub rose and fell around them. His head felt fuzzy and he would much rather have been at home; he needed an early night to sleep off the lingering after-effects of his hangover. Every time he moved his leg slightly his knee bumped into Juliet's, and he wished he could move his chair back but there was no space. He was pinned between the two of them and there was no escape. The American was doing his best to be charming and Juliet laughed obligingly in all the right places, but Harry did not bother. He didn't particularly care whether the man realised that he didn't like him. The conversation drifted to the new American administration and when Enfield launched into a long-winded explanation as to how Trump was magically going to make everything better in the country, Harry tuned out and let his mind wander. It went back to the previous night, and his conversation with Ruth. He'd put her in an awkward position, and that was unacceptable. He was her boss, and he'd had no right to confess his growing attraction to her. Just because she'd seemed to enjoy his company during their dinner, because he'd thought he'd detected a flicker of… _interest_ in her gaze, did not give him the right to blurt out that he'd fantasised about kissing her. And now he'd messed things up royally. All the plans he'd had, to woo her subtly until he was sure that the attraction was mutual, had been scuppered by one night of alcohol-fuelled indiscretion. No wonder she could barely meet his eyes that morning.

His morbid thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a blonde, statuesque woman, who drew the attention of almost every man in the pub the moment she stepped through the door. Jennifer had arrived. And to Harry's surprise, following in her wake almost unnoticed, so did Ruth. He stared at her; her dark hair swirling around her shoulders, her slight form, her soft curves, and was blindsided by a wave of yearning that threatened to overwhelm all good sense. He lifted his glass and took a sip of whisky, fighting the urge to get up and go to her. She looked around as they made their way to the bar and their eyes met, and held, and for a few seconds the throngs melted away and it was just them, alone in their own world. He saw her take a steadying breath and his blood began to roar around his veins, threatening to pool in his nether regions, and he almost missed Juliet's words. He dragged his gaze away from Ruth and made a concerted effort to focus on the woman next to him, and managed to pick up the last few words.  
"-she doing here?" Juliet hissed beneath her breath, close to his ear.  
He thought it best to play dumb. "Who?"  
She glanced at the American before answering, but he was staring at Jennifer lustily and did not notice their whispered conversation.  
"Our prostitute."  
Harry followed Enfield's gaze, but once again his did not quite make it to the blonde.  
"Contingencies," he answered obliquely and Juliet blew out an annoyed breath. She looked between the two men, both of whom were staring in the direction of the prostitute, before standing abruptly. "I'm going to the Ladies," she announced and stomped off in a huff.

As soon as she was out of earshot Enfield leant towards Harry. "You know, Hairy, when I said I'd like to sample the local flavour, I did not have _her_ in mind." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the Ladies, and Harry struggled to hide his distaste of this vulgar man. He might not exactly be enamoured with Juliet at present either, but that did not give this Yank the right to disparage her.  
"No?" he responded instead, his tone deceptively mild. "What did you have in mind? Someone like that blonde at the bar, perhaps?"  
Enfield licked his lips. "She does look rather tasty."  
Harry smiled mirthlessly. "Mm. This is your lucky day, then." He caught Ruth's eye and nodded imperceptibly, and she spoke to the woman next to her, who turned and gave Enfield a sultry once-over.  
"Jesus, Hairy," Enfield exclaimed, unable to believe his luck. He grinned lasciviously as he leant towards the other man and dropped his voice. "I may have to revaluate my estimation of you Poms – you're not all boring old sticks in the mud."  
Harry said nothing; merely watched gloomily as the American ogled Jennifer eagerly. He jumped as Enfield's hand clamped unexpectedly around his arm.  
"As a return gesture of goodwill, I have some information for you." The American's eyes fastened on his, bright with anticipation. In their depths, though, there was a furtiveness that gave Harry pause. "We've picked up murmurs of a multiple terror strike against London, around Easter," he announced triumphantly, and Harry froze. His own gaze zeroed in on the other man, noting every shift in expression carefully.  
"How?" he asked, trying to hide his distress. _Graham_.  
The American shrugged. "Intercepts. I don't know anything else, though." His eyes were drawn back to the blonde even as he spoke, and Harry felt like throttling him. Could the imbecile not focus on anything other than sex for a few minutes?  
"Why have we not received a report from the CIA?" he demanded through clenched teeth, doing his utmost to control his temper.  
Once more Enfield shrugged. "Because it's unconfirmed," he said blithely, and looked round in surprise as the Englishman stood suddenly. Harry loomed over him, his eyes flashing dangerously, before he reined himself in.  
"Excuse me."

He stalked over to the two women, and Ruth watched him come with some concern. She knew him too well, could see that he was suppressing his anger with some difficulty. "Good evening, Jennifer," he said once he reached them, and the blonde smiled at him.  
"Hi, Mr Pearce."  
"Show our friend a good time, won't you?" he instructed and she nodded, sliding off the barstool in a languid movement. But Harry was not done. "You don't have to do anything you don't like," he continued, "but we'll be taking pictures."  
She understood – she had done this for MI-5 many a time. "I'll make sure they're good ones," she promised and began to move towards her target as Harry called after her.  
"His tab, Jennifer," and she nodded.  
Harry did not move, his eyes following her until she reached the American and draped herself over him. Then, to Ruth's surprise, he took a step closer and leant an arm against the bar next to her.

He was close, very close, his thigh brushing her knee and his face inches from hers as he leant in, and for a disconcerting, wonderful moment, she though he was going to kiss her, but instead he put his mouth close to her ear and murmured, "I want you to look into Enfield. Quietly."  
He drew back a fraction so he could look into her eyes, and it took her a few seconds to compute his words. Her breath had sped up involuntarily at his close proximity and he suddenly became aware of it, of her chest rising close to his. She saw his pupils dilate as his gaze briefly dropped before returning to meet her own again, and she moistened her suddenly dry lips. The movement drew his eyes to her lips and just for a second, she saw naked attraction flicker across his face before he shuttered it away. She swallowed. "All right," she said, not quite sure whether it was meant as a response to his request or to something else, something that remained unspoken between them. "What am I looking for?"  
"I don't know. But I have an uncomfortable feeling about him. He rather casually informed me that they've picked up the same rumours about the Easter attacks than we have."  
Ruth frowned, uncertain why that should arouse Harry's suspicions, so he continued. "When I asked why the CIA did not inform us, he claimed it was because the rumours were unsubstantiated. It's nonsense. They normally share any information, no matter how unsubstantiated."  
She nodded, and the motion caused her hair to brush against his nose and he briefly closed his eyes. "Thank you Ruth," he whispered, his breath tickling her ear, and warmth pooled in her stomach. When he moved away she sat for a few minutes more, until she was certain her shaky legs would be able to carry her.

o0o

 _Half an hour later_

When he stepped back onto the Grid she was there, firmly planted behind her computer, and selfishly he was glad to see her. His feet carried him across the floor until he stood in front of her desk and she looked up, warmth flooding her gaze as she registered who it was.  
"It's late," he chided half-heartedly, "you should go home."  
"I thought I'd get started on that request of yours," she said, abandoning any attempt to pretend that she wasn't exactly where she wanted to be in that moment. "Besides, I could say the same to you."  
He smiled, and it drove the shadows from his eyes momentarily. This woman had the ability to brighten his day with the smallest of gestures, with the most innocent of words. What he wouldn't give- He hastily quashed that thought. "I wanted to check that the surveillance on Enfield is running smoothly," he explained, and a broad smile blossomed on Ruth's face.  
"Malcolm bustled past just now, red as a tomato, so I think it is," she divulged, eyes dancing mischievously, and he laughed, enchanted by her. She would be fun to know intimately, he suspected, once they had moved past the initial shyness.  
"That's good," he said, his voice like honey, and she dropped her gaze, aware that she was gazing at him again. He cleared his throat. "I better…" he gestured over his shoulder and moved off, and she watched him go wistfully. What she wouldn't give- No. Better not to go down that path. She turned resolutely back to her screen.

o0o

 _Friday 24 March, late afternoon  
Clapham North_

Graham sat on Jo's sofa, and watched in morbid fascination as she fiddled with the television set until, suddenly, a black and white picture flickered and stabilised. He saw small shoeless men moving around, and when she pressed a button on the remote it changed to another room, smaller and deserted.  
"This is the room at the mosque where the Syrian does his instruction, apparently," she said, looking over her shoulder at him. Then she smiled, her gorgeous friendly smile. "So you see, we've got you covered. You can relax."  
He realised that he was clutching his hands together tightly, and that it had betrayed his nerves to the observant spook. He made a conscious effort to relax them.  
"Malcolm-" she said, and a weary voice crackled over the speakers, interrupting her. "Code-names, people." Jo rolled her eyes at Graham good-naturedly, and he smiled despite himself. The camaraderie among his father's team surprised him. They seemed to work well together, without petty squabbles, and they all appeared to have great respect for their leader. It was food for thought; he had not expected his father to be a good team player, to care about his flock. "Sorry," Jo responded, "Mobile One, this is Bravo, er…"  
"Two," the disembodied voice supplied, now sounding exasperated, and Jo smirked.  
"Bravo Two reporting in", she continued, grinning. "Surveillance feed is up and running smoothly."  
"Copy," Malcolm acknowledged and she turned to Graham.  
"Adam and the boys are just down the street from the mosque in the surveillance van, and Zaf is only a block away on standby."  
The young Pearce nodded, his frayed nerves somewhat soothed. "I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do," he confessed, and Jo moved to sit next to him on the sofa.  
"Today, you don't do anything. All right? You are there to start your conversion to Islam, nothing more. Once we've got the lay of the land, we'll revaluate." She glanced at her watch and stood. "You'd better get going." She handed him a pen, his watch and his mobile, all of which had been tinkered with by the tech boys. He did not ask – the less he knew the better.

o0o

 _Fifteen minutes later_

Kenny was waiting for him on the pavement outside the mosque. All around them men drifted into the mosque, preparing for evening prayers. Kenny smiled and clapped Graham on the shoulder. "Ready, brother?"  
Graham looked around, certain that all these people could see right through him. What had he done? He was not cut out for this spying business. He should have left it to the callous people of this world – people like his father. He became aware that Kenny was looking at him searchingly, and he wanted to laugh hysterically. Not even in through the door, and already he'd given himself away. "You all right?" Kenny asked, and through the panic Graham experienced a flash of inspiration.  
"I'm terribly nervous, mate," he confessed. "It's a big step, this conversion."  
He could sense the other man relax. "Yes, it is. Are you having doubts?"  
"Not doubts, exactly," Graham said slowly. "More worries that I won't measure up, you know?" He sounded convincing, because he was telling the truth. But Kenny was not to know that he was referring to something else entirely – the heretofore unacknowledged fear that he wouldn't measure up in his father's world. Graham was stunned as the realisation hit him square between the eyes – it mattered to him whether he could make a success of this. And it mattered whether, for once in his life, he could make his father proud. _Bugger_.  
His sponsor smiled supportively. "I'll tell you a secret; I had the same worry. But once I started, it all disappeared. Now I've never been more certain about anything in my life." His voice had strengthened with sudden conviction, and Graham felt the first hint of concern. Was MI-5 right? Had these converts been turned into zealots? He let Kenny steer him inside as he pondered this, warning himself severely not to jump to conclusions.

Inside the surveillance van Adam could not quite hide his relief, or his triumph. "He might think he's not a chip off the old block," he said, grinning at Colin, "but he's got more than a few splinters of the old man in him." His relief was matched by that of the old man in question, listening into the surveillance feed in his office. He did not share the triumph, though; it was rather overshadowed by concern for his son's welfare. As he lifted a hand and wearily rubbed his brow, Ruth's gaze flicked to him as though she could sense his distress.

o0o

Graham was led into a small room and came face to face with the Syrian for the first time. He recognised the place from the surveillance feed Jo had shown him and relief flooded him. He was all right; they were close by, and his gaze shifted to the man before him curiously. Was this what a terrorist looked like? He hastily reined in that thought and smiled uncertainly. The Syrian spoke first. "Thank you, Kenny," he said in a well-modulated, lilting voice, a voice that was used to speaking another language, and Graham momentarily forgot to be scared. But that only lasted until he heard the door click shut behind him and he realised that he was alone with this man. Then it came flooding back and nearly knocked him off his feet. In an effort to control it, he focussed on Imad Tu'mah.  
"Sit," Tu'mah half-invited, half-ordered and pointed at a cushion on the floor, and Graham sat down meekly. It was awkward; he wasn't quite sure what to do with his legs, and in the end settled cross-legged and rested his elbows on his knees. He felt like a twelve-year old before the Headmaster as Tu'mah settled across from him. "So you want to convert?" he asked, and Graham made a conscious effort not to fidget.  
"Yes."

The dark eyes watched him impassively, seemingly weighing his worthiness, and he struggled to hold them. He found himself blathering on. "But I worry that I may not be worthy."  
"Because of the drug use?" the seductive voice asked, and Graham nodded dumbly.  
"And… other things," he blurted, and knew that it had been unwise the moment the words had left his mouth. Fuck. He wouldn't last one minute under interrogation, he realised gloomily.  
"Like what?"  
And now he was in it. He cast around desperately for one of his suitably moderate sins. "I've been… with women," he confessed, and even though he didn't actually believe that sex could be a sin, he felt shame-faced to say it to this man. The dark gaze never wavered.  
"Are you currently in a physical relationship with a woman?" Tu'mah asked, and with a slight narrowing of the eyes added, "That blonde who has moved into your apartment building?"  
For a second, every spook that was listening in froze, alarmed. How did the Syrian know about Jo? Were they watching Graham? And if so, why?  
Graham was just as startled. "What?! No," he emphasised quickly. "I only just met her," he added lamely, and amazingly the explanation seemed to satisfy Tu'mah.  
"For some men that would not have been an obstacle," he said laconically, before suddenly smiling. It lit up his face and Graham felt himself drawn in once more. "Fortunately for us Allah is merciful. He forgives the sins of the past if we strive to be better men."  
"Oh," Graham said, strangely relieved even though he wasn't really here to convert. It was good to know that there was a place where one would be accepted, no matter what skeletons you had in your closet. "So how does this work? Do I have to write an exam or something?"  
The Syrian sobered and shook his head. "No. You cannot earn your conversion by writing a test. You must want it with your whole heart, and then you must ask Allah for it. Do you want it, Graham? Do you want to become a new man, a better man?" The words were so seductive that Graham suddenly wanted nothing more.  
"Yes," he almost whispered, and the dark gaze became solemn.  
"Then let us kneel," he said, and diplomatically directed the novice in the direction of Mecca before kneeling down beside him. "Now repeat after me: I bear witness that there is no deity worthy of worship except Allah, and I bear witness that Muhammad is the messenger of Allah."  
Graham repeated the words, and Tu'mah turned and squeezed his shoulder. "Congratulations, Graham. You are now a Muslim."

Could it really be this easy? He could not believe it. "Is that it?" he asked, somewhat disappointed. Where was the ceremony, the bells, the ecclesiastical light?  
Tu'mah smiled knowingly. "Yes, that is it. But of course, now you must devote yourself to learning, for how are you to become a better man without the knowledge of what Allah instructs?"  
Graham smiled sheepishly. "Of course. When do I start?"  
"How about right now?" Tu'mah asked, and handed the young man a Qur'an.

o0o

 _One hour later_

The Syrian met Kenny in the small room after Graham had left. He sat on the floor, cross-legged and thoughtful, and Kenny sank down on the cushion the younger Pearce had recently vacated.  
"So what do you think?" Kenny asked, his dark eyes bright and eager. "Will he do?"  
Tu'mah roused himself from his contemplation and looked at the man across the floor. There were so many others like him – British by birth but Asian in heritage, struggling to handle the conflicting demands of these two cultures, and crying out for guidance. He smiled. "Yes, I think so. You have done well, Kenny." He sobered and his gaze hardened. Then he said, "We have found the last man for our special project."

 _tbc_


	7. Chapter 7

**PART VII: AN OLD FOE**

 _Things are not always what they seem; the first appearance deceives many; the intelligence of a few perceives what has been carefully hidden._

 _ **Phaedrus**_

 _Monday 27 March, early morning  
The Grid_

When Ruth stepped through the pods, she glanced towards Harry's office first. It was, by now, as instinctive as breathing, this impulse to seek him out as soon as she entered. The walls glowed a warm red, which meant the lights were on in the office, which in turn meant that he was already here. He was behind the desk, his head bent over a report, a pen poised in his right hand. Ready to scrawl those almost illegible comments in a margin or his signature at the bottom. A rush of warmth infused her chest – she had come to look forward to this moment every day; her first sight of the man who had assumed such importance in her life. For months she had tried to convince herself that what she felt was only admiration and respect, but she knew, now, that it was a lie. The spike of heat that pulsed through her when he looked up and smiled at her could not be explained by those innocent emotions. No. She was in trouble, and what made it worse was that she increasingly suspected that so was he. But he was her boss, and that made it complicated, and possibly even dangerous. And yet it was heady. Intoxicating. Ensorcelling. Could they risk it – giving in to the magnetic forces that were drawing them inexorably towards each other? _Should_ they risk it? He was still watching her and her feet took her into his office, and perhaps that was an answer in itself.

"Morning. You're in early," she greeted, unable to come up with anything more intelligent under his warm gaze. It was true, though; on most days she beat him into the office.  
"Morning, Ruth." Her name rolled off his tongue and straight into her blood, warming it a few degrees more. "Mm. I have an early meeting with Carl Morris," he confided, and she frowned. Morris was the local CIA representative, and Harry did not often bother to meet with the Cousins himself, rather leaving that onerous task to Adam whenever possible. He saw the question in her eyes. With anyone else he would simply have left them wondering, but for her he explained. "I want to find out what the CIA thinks about George Enfield. Unofficially."  
She nodded slowly. "And you think Morris will tell you?"  
"What do you think?" he asked, inclining his head towards the sofa, and she realised that she was still standing in the middle of his floor, clutching her oversized bag. She sat.  
"Well, he isn't one of the hawks, as far as we know," she responded slowly, mentally running through all the information they had on the CIA officer.  
"Exactly," Harry said, vindicated. "I'm banking on the fact that he isn't enamoured with the new Administration. It's worth a flutter."  
That was true enough, and she acknowledged the fact with a nod. "I haven't found anything out of the ordinary on Enfield so far," she informed him tangentially. "Everything is as you would expect. But I'm looking into his business interests and travel history now – I should be done with that by the end of the day."  
Harry seized the unexpected opportunity her words presented with some alacrity. "Good. You can brief me over dinner? If you'd like?"  
Her head snapped towards him. He was asking her out, and even though it had been done rather clumsily and round-about, she recognised it for what it was and her joy knew no bounds. "Yes, er, okay," she rambled, and he couldn't quite suppress his delighted smile.  
"Good then," he murmured before his eye caught the time on the clock behind her head. "I have to go." She indulged herself, watching as he shrugged on his coat, then dug out the leather gloves from a pocket and began to put them on before he shepherded her out of the office with a hand in the small of her back. The brief touch was electric and she unconsciously leant back into it, savouring it, prolonging it. When she glanced at his face she saw, for the briefest of seconds, an expression of utter contentment flicker across it and her heart soared. Oh yes, they were definitely in trouble.

o0o

Morris was waiting on the embankment when Harry strode up, leaning against the stone parapet and watching the mist rising off the river. He sipped a take-away coffee and looked up with a smile as the senior MI-5 spook approached, and Harry readily reciprocated. Contrary to popular belief he did not actually despise all Americans – only the loud, arrogant, overbearing ones. It was his misfortune that this was exactly the type of personality that the CIA tended to attract. But Morris was different. He was a moderate; a man who preferred a calm, measured approach to things, and who acknowledged that sometimes other countries might know better than the mighty USA. Harry wondered despondently how long such a man would last under the new administration. He came to a stop next to Morris and mirrored his position, leaning his arms on the parapet and gazing down on the river. The tide was going out and he watched an empty bottle bob away towards the ocean. "Thank you for seeing me at such short notice," he began, and Morris gave him a side-long glance.  
"Just making sure I preserve the Special Relationship in these difficult times," he murmured with a mirthless smile.  
Harry smirked, well aware that Morris was referring to the frequent ructions his ignorant President caused. "Let's walk," he suggested, and they fell into step beside each other.

The early morning air was brisk and bit at Harry's nose, and he flexed his fingers inside the warm leather gloves. "This is not an official discussion, more a tête-á-tête," he confided, and the CIA man's interest was summarily piqued.  
"Yes?"  
"I'm sure you are aware that we are currently hosting George Enfield," Harry probed, and Morris' lip curled distastefully.  
"Yes."  
Encouraged by the distinct lack of enthusiasm in his companion, Harry took the plunge. "What can you tell me about him?"  
The other man took a sip of coffee before responding, buying time, and Harry began to wonder whether he had overplayed his hand. Whatever else you could say about the Americans, they tended to be staunch patriots, and dishing the dirt on a senior government official would go against the grain for a man like Morris. But then Morris responded cautiously, "What kind of information are you looking for?", and Harry let out a breath. Not an immediate rejection – that was good.  
"What is his standing within the CIA?" he asked, and Morris shrugged.  
"What standing? Most of us have never even heard of him – the President literally plucked him from obscurity." He did not bother to hide his indignation and Harry sympathised; one at least expected a nodding acquaintance with the intelligence community from an Intelligence Advisor.  
"All the more reason for the CIA to look into him," he ventured, and Morris sighed.  
"Yes, you'd think so," he responded morosely, and Harry looked at him in surprise.  
"They have not?" he queried, astounded, well aware that in the same situation nothing would have stopped him from ripping the man's life apart.

Morris stopped walking and turned to him. "You have to understand the current climate in the US," he tried to explain. "Most government officials are unsure of their standing, and no-one wants to rock the boat or focus attention on themselves, in case it takes the President's fancy to get rid of them. Same goes for the CIA. So no, we have not looked into him."  
Harry frowned, deeply perturbed. That was an unhealthy and dangerous situation, and he wondered whether other countries, like the UK, would eventually pay the price for it. "Carl," he said, the weight of his concern evident in his voice, "is there any scenario that you can see where Enfield would know about a terror threat against London that the CIA was not aware of?"  
Morris stared at him, stunned and equally perturbed. And when he spoke he confirmed Harry's worst fears. "No, Harry. None."

o0o

 _Evening_

This time they were in an Indian restaurant that was on the way to her house. It was a healthy distance from Thames House and Ruth suspected that Harry had chosen it specifically for this reason. He was convinced that other Intelligence Agencies bugged the restaurants around Thames House and it made sense – many employees were wont to pop over to a nearby eatery for lunch or dinner, during which work was often discussed. But as much as this meal was intended to talk about the US Intelligence Advisor away from prying eyes and ears, it was equally an opportunity for them to spend time together. So here they were, a safe distance away, chatting over their prawn curries. Harry updated her on his discussion with Carl Morris and her brow furrowed in concentration as she listened. Harry was right; it was disturbing. "So the question is – where did Enfield get the information if not from the CIA?" he concluded as he broke off a piece of poppadom and scooped up some of the sauce with it.  
"Someone at GCHQ?" Ruth asked, worrying at the puzzle in her mind.  
"Possibly. But to what end?"  
She took a sip of water. It was a good question and she did not have the answer.  
"Besides," he continued, "if he'd got it from our side he would know that we already knew about it, and that he would not gain any brownie points by giving me this information."  
"Mm."  
"What did you get from his travel record?"  
She considered momentarily. "Nothing that appeared noteworthy off the bat, apart from a few visits to Russia that would probably interest the FBI-" She stopped abruptly and her eyes flew to Harry's, to find him staring at her with his fork frozen halfway to his mouth. He lowered it slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, watching as her mind raced and computed. They were both thinking the same thing, but it was Ruth that voiced it first. "The FSB," she breathed. "They might have picked up the same rumours we have."  
His mouth set grimly. "Or something more sinister." The thought made his face cloud over and his hand tightened around the knife helplessly. _Graham_.  
The suggestion brought Ruth up short. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?" she asked incredulously, and Harry just looked at her. "But why? What would the Russians get out of staging a terror attack here?"

Harry didn't respond immediately, still plagued by visions of his son in harm's way. She looked at him curiously, but it quickly turned into worry when she registered his troubled expression. As always she was primed to his well-being and she almost reached for his hand. In the end she didn't; the gesture somehow too intimate at this early stage.  
"Graham?" she asked softly instead, and his eyes slid away from hers, embarrassed to have been read so easily. He was not used to this; to be caught experiencing normal, petty, human emotions – love for a child, and concern for its welfare. He had learnt, in the years since his divorce, to hide his emotions rather successfully, and it had served him well in the hard world he inhabited. But now someone had taken the time to study him, to learn his tells, until she could breach his defences with ease. And to his surprise he did not find it uncomfortable. He knew why: because it was _her_. He nodded shortly, and to his delight she reached out and squeezed his arm. The gesture was meant to comfort and he tried not to read too much into it, no matter how desperately he wished it to be more.  
"If the Russians are somehow behind it, and they find out that Graham is my son…" He could not finish the thought; it was too horrible to contemplate.  
Ruth dropped her gaze to the table, picking her words carefully. "We have no evidence to suggest any Russian involvement," she argued, trying to ease his worries, and he released a long breath.  
"No we don't," he conceded. "I'm trying not to jump to conclusions, but it is a possibility that we have to look into." His gaze turned inward as he added forlornly, "Because Graham is right in the middle of it."  
Her face softened at the anguish in his voice; he was letting her see the depth of his love for his son and she was touched, aware that he would never have done so with anyone else. "Adam needs to know," she said as gently as she could and his eyes blazed in brief rebellion, but she pressed on. "He has to have all the facts – how can he protect Graham effectively if he does not?"  
"I know, I know," Harry acknowledged, "but once I tell him I will lose control over the investigation into this angle. And that worries me. People tend to forget just how dangerous the Russians are. They think the Cold War is over – it may be for the West, but let me tell you, it bloody well isn't for Vladimir Putin. He will not rest until Russia is once again the might of the world, the country everyone else fears."

The last words were uttered with fervent conviction and she had to fight the urge to be swept right along with him. It was her job to bring objectivity to the situation, but it was difficult when Harry argued his point with such passion. A thought occurred to her. "Do you think that is why the Russians tried to influence the US election?"  
"Of course it is. Help them to elect the buffoon, then sit back and watch the country tear itself apart through political infighting and uncertainty. And meantime politically stable, powerful Russia emerges from the shadows to fill the void on the world stage."  
"They couldn't have known Trump's election would cause such political instability," she argued half-heartedly, knowing there was considerable logic to his words, but Harry waved her protest away impatiently.  
"Anyone with a basic understanding of the American psyche could have predicted this. And besides, they would make sure they had a back-up plan in place. My guess is that they ensured they have influence over the people he would most likely turn to for advice. The man is worryingly vulnerable to external influence – because he doesn't understand politics, he leans too heavily on the opinions of others. This is why he switches position on issues with the regularity of a metronome. He thinks whoever spoke to him last knows best."  
"And you think Enfield is one of the people the Russians ensured they have influence over?"  
"Yes." He looked at her entreatingly. "It makes sense, doesn't it?"  
It did, but she was loath to capitulate too easily, always keeping in mind that she should be the voice of reason. Besides, all of it hinged on one unsubstantiated assumption. "Are you seriously suggesting the FSB is behind this planned terror attack?" she challenged. "And if so, what would they gain from it?"  
Harry deflated somewhat. "I don't know, to both questions," he conceded. "But I owe it to Graham to find out. _That_ I do know."  
It was said with quiet desperation and it took the wind right out of her sails. How could she deny him in his hour of need? How could she do anything other than support him? So she nodded and looked at him earnestly. "I'll help you, Harry. No matter what Adam orders, I'll continue to help you investigate Enfield," she promised, and the gratitude in his eyes warmed her heart for the rest of the night.

o0o

 _Tuesday 28 March, morning  
The Grid, meeting room_

Adam looked between the two people across the table from him, and if he wasn't so preoccupied with the information they'd shared with him he would have wondered whether they were aware of the united front they presented as they sat next to each other, slightly leaning together until their shoulders almost touched. Harry's jaw was set stubbornly, daring Adam to take him on, and Ruth's gaze constantly flicked between Harry's face and Adam worriedly. She was there to keep the peace, to mediate between the two strong-willed men if necessary. "Russian involvement would certainly complicate matters," Adam began slowly and immediately Harry bristled at the veiled scepticism behind the words. The Section Chief looked at him steadily. "There is no proof at this point. It's all conjecture," he elaborated and braced for the storm. But Ruth got in there before Harry could vent.  
"I agree," she said calmly and Harry's head whipped round to her in astonishment. She bestowed a soothing smile on him before she continued, "But I also think it warrants urgent further investigation."  
"So do I," Harry agreed, mollified, and Adam suppressed a smile. It was an unwritten rule within the Section – if you wanted to blunt Harry's wrath, you sent in Ruth. She was much less likely to be subjected to an angry outburst than anybody else.  
"We need all hands on deck for the operation. I'm not sure I can spare anybody to look into the Russian angle. Especially you," he added pointedly, looking at Ruth.  
"But you don't need me," Harry interjected quietly, and Adam's gaze turned to him. He suspected that it was a Very Bad Idea to let Harry run loose with the Russian investigation, linked as it was to the operation his son was involved in. On the other hand, they were right – it had to be looked at, and at least he could be certain that Harry would not do anything reckless that would endanger his son. His main concern was that the older man would not share all the information he obtained; his long years in the Service had ingrained into him that one only shared what you thought were essential for the other parties to know. That might be a good approach when you weren't certain that everyone involved was pulling in the same direction, but Adam trusted the team implicitly. And the more minds that applied themselves to a problem, the more likely it was that someone would spot something that the others had missed. Adam, though, was not above a little subterfuge himself, and he had an idea to ensure that he would get all the information he wanted.

"All right," he agreed readily, looking at Harry. "You run with the Russian angle. But we need to meet up daily to exchange information."  
Harry gave a curt nod and stood, still rankled to have to defer to Adam during this operation. He was used to giving orders, not receiving them, and he was damned if he'd do it in good grace. As he stalked out of the room Adam held Ruth back with a hand on her arm. "I mean it; I need your full attention on the Clapham operation. But," he added, forestalling her protests, "I know you're going to help Harry no matter what I say." He grinned at her, not bothered by the mild insubordination this implied. Besides, they all knew where her loyalties laid. "So here's the trade-off; you keep me informed on what he finds out, and I'll give you as much leeway as I can afford."  
She frowned, disturbed. "I'm not going to spy on Harry," she objected.  
"I'm not asking you to. All I want is to have all the available information at my disposal. Harry is an old fox, and he tends to play his cards close to his chest. Normally I would trust his decisions about what the team needs to know to get the job done, but this operation is too personal. It might cloud that otherwise good judgement of his. So will you make sure I know everything there is to know?"  
She hesitated, then nodded reluctantly and he felt bad for her. She was rather caught in the middle between the two of them, and he hoped it wouldn't sour their easy camaraderie before it was all over.

o0o

 _Sunday 02 April, morning  
London_

For the rest of the week they made little progress, and the lull in activity was beginning to get on everyone's nerves. Graham went to his daily instruction classes in Islam, but so far nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Harry had enlisted Carl Morris' help in the investigation into Enfield, but even the CIA had to tread carefully around President Trump's men and they had not been able to turn up anything significant to date. Harry pondered all of this as he took his dog for a leisurely stroll in the local park, once again thinking through all that he knew. Were they missing something? And would that put Graham in danger? He could not get away from it – the constant gnawing anxiety about his son. He didn't know what he would do if anything happened to him. He blew out a frustrated breath and determinedly turned his thoughts to happier things. Ruth had let him take her out again on Friday evening, and this time they'd managed not to talk about work for most of the night. He'd learnt what city she would most like to visit, and what her favourite books and authors were, and it had been a wonderful evening. The only blot on his happiness was that he'd not yet kissed her. He could not get past her evasive answer that night in the pub, when he'd confessed his desire to kiss her, and he didn't want to force her into anything. What was he to make of it? Did she want a platonic relationship with him and nothing more? The thought depressed him and he kicked at a fallen leaf desultorily, wondering whether he should risk asking again. His thoughts were interrupted by an alert from his mobile, and when he fished it out of his pocket it was a red flash.

 _Graham called to special meeting with Syrian_ , the message read, and his blood turned to ice. The waiting was over.

 _tbc_


	8. Chapter 8

**PART VIII: A GLORIOUS REWARD**

 _The greatest hazard of all, losing one's self, can occur very quietly in the world, as if it were nothing at all._

 _ **Søren Kierkegaard**_

 _Sunday 02 April, midday  
The Grid_

Jo handed out mugs of tea but Graham did not touch his. His gaze kept jumping from face to face, only to return to his father's involuntarily again and again. He was scared. The call summoning him to a special meeting had come just as he had convinced himself that MI-5's information was wrong – that there was nothing untoward about Imad Tu'mah, or the conversions of the men that formed part of his AA chapter. He was certain that even Jo and Zaf had begun to relax, and that they had similarly been caught unawares by the call. But when he looked at Adam and his father and their set, determined faces, he knew without even asking that they had never relaxed. For them it had been a case of when, not if. He wondered if it was due to their larger experience, or whether they had simply reached the stage where they always expected the worst. It didn't matter, he supposed; the important thing was that they had put measures in place for this eventuality, and he was particularly glad of it. It gave him the reassuring feeling that these two men were incapable of being caught unawares by anything, and as it was his life that might be at stake, the feeling of security that gave him was immeasurable.

Once everyone was settled, Adam turned to Malcolm. "Let's hear the recording," he instructed, and the techie leant forward to push a button on the machine in front of him. Tu'mah's voice filled the room, asking Graham to keep Monday evening open for a special meeting. No details were provided, other than that Kenny would pick him up at six. "No venue given," Adam said as he lifted his eyes to Harry, unconsciously deferring to the older man now that developments had reached a crucial stage. Whilst he'd had no qualms to go over Harry's head to get the operation launched initially, he was not so arrogant as to discard the senior man's greater experience in running an operation. Harry took up the baton without missing a beat; a born leader who did not question his right to be in charge.  
"No," he agreed. "He's careful, playing his cards close to his chest. A natural distrust of the security of phones. None of these point to an innocent man."  
Ruth lifted worried eyes to his. "So what do we do?" If they didn't know the venue they could not bug it beforehand, and that severely limited their options.  
Harry turned to Colin. "Have we picked up anything from the Syrian's movement map?" he asked, hoping against hope that there would be an easy solution, but Colin promptly dashed it.  
"No. There are no outliers; nowhere he only visited once or twice. So either it is a place he hasn't visited before, or it's somewhere in the building he lives or the one the mosque is in."  
His boss accepted this unhelpful news stoically. "Can we get hold of the floor plans for the two buildings, just in case?"  
"I'll do that," Malcolm offered, and Harry gave the go-ahead with a tilt of the head. And then, most reluctantly, he turned his gaze on his son.

"Graham. Can you speak to Kenny, perhaps? Find out if he might know the venue?"  
Adam and Ruth exchanged a surprised glance, unnoticed by either Pearce.  
"Erm, I could try," Graham responded uncertainly, eyes fixed on his father's face, clouded with anxiety. "But… How do I raise the subject without arousing his suspicions?" he asked helplessly, once again acutely aware how far out of his depth he was in this world that his father bestrode with such assurance.  
"It would be entirely natural for you to be curious about the meeting," Adam interjected smoothly, helping Harry out, knowing that it went against all his instincts to coach his son to entangle himself further in the operation. "You can simply ask whether he has been summoned like this before, what it was about, and where they went."  
The young man took a breath and nodded. "Yeah, all right," he mumbled, before turning to his father once more. "What if he doesn't know?" He couldn't hide his fear and Harry had to fight the urge to reach out to him; to gather him to his breast and whisk him away from there and to safety. He had to clench his jaw against the emotion, but those that knew him well could see the effort it took to get out the simple, inadequate words he managed.  
"Then we'll figure out something else."

Ruth watched the scene play out and her heart went out to both men; each so incapable of expressing emotion, and yet so desperate for a rapprochement. How she wished that there was something she could do-  
"The jacket!", she exclaimed in excitement, turning to Colin. "What about that jacket you guys were working on during the Shining Dawn operation? The one that has the transmitting fibres woven into it?"  
Colin brightened at the opportunity to use his latest toy. "Yeah… If we could get close enough with a receiver for the signal to be picked up, it can work," he agreed eagerly, and Harry nodded.  
"Good. Set it up as a back-up," he instructed, and his gaze strayed to Ruth, filled with relief.  
"Right," Adam said into the ensuing silence, "let's do it then," and there was a general movement of chairs and hubbub of voices as everyone rose.

Harry became aware that his son had not moved and he turned to him questioningly, to find Graham's eyes locked on him like a drowning man clinging to a piece of driftwood. "Where will you be during all of this?" he asked, and the underlying tremor in his voice stabbed at Harry's heart. His boy was afraid, and he was suddenly transported back to the time when Graham was a toddler, begging his father to protect him from the monsters under his bed. That, at least, he had managed, but this time there was no guarantee that he would be able to protect him. All he could offer was empty promises, so he swallowed down the wave of self-loathing and said as reassuringly as he could, "I'll be right here the whole time, keeping an eye on you. You'll be fine."  
Graham nodded, mollified, and went on his way with a lighter heart. Only Ruth noticed Harry sigh and cover his face with his hands.

o0o

 _Monday 03 April, evening  
Clapham North_

When the knock on the door came just after six, Graham started badly. His nerves were frayed and he worried that Kenny and the Syrian would see right through him. He had tried throughout the day to get hold of his friend, but had failed. So now here he was, decked out in MI-5's jacket, their pen in his pocket, and his mobile in his hand. Surely not all of these devices could fail at once – he would be all right. His father had been so confident yesterday, and he took solace from that. He took a deep breath and opened the door to his sponsor, looking serious and determined. "Hi," he said, and his voice sounded strangely high-pitched to his own ears. If Kenny noticed he gave no sign.  
"Hiya, mate," he greeted. "Let's go."  
"Where are we going?" Graham queried as he followed the other man down the foul-smelling stairs.  
But Kenny would not be drawn. "You'll see soon enough," he stated, and there was no more talk after that. Once they stepped onto the pavement and turned left, walking in the direction of the mosque, Zaf unobtrusively trailed after them on the opposite side of the street.

"Eyes on target," he murmured into the comms and Adam leant forward. The game was afoot. On Malcolm's screen Zaf's tracker blinked steadily and Adam studied the map thoughtfully.  
"Looks like they're heading towards the mosque," he said to no-one in particular. "Tu'mah's flat is in the other direction."  
Back on the Grid only Harry and Ruth remained – everyone else was deployed in Clapham. Fiona, unrecognisable in frumpy clothes and no make-up, was staking out Tu'mah's flat, and she now came on the comms.  
"The Syrian just left his building," she reported, "he's moving in the direction of the mosque."  
"All right Alpha Two," Adam acknowledged. "Do not follow. Repeat: do not follow. We don't want to spook him. Jump ahead to the mosque." He had barely finished speaking when a car drew to the kerb next to her and one of the surveillance team grinned at her. She got in and they drove past Tu'mah just as he stopped and stooped down to tie a shoelace. Fiona watched carefully.  
"Alpha One," she said, "he is employing counter-surveillance measures. He just stopped to tie a shoelace that was already fastened."  
"Copy that," Adam said, perturbed. Things were beginning to look exceedingly bleak. He was increasingly convinced that the man was a professional. And back on the Grid, Harry was coming to the same conclusion, and he said so to Ruth.

She looked at him worriedly, knowing that it would strengthen his suspicion about Enfield and the Russians. "Nowadays ISIS also give their people counter-surveillance training in their more sophisticated camps," she cautioned, and Harry pursed his lips.  
"But we have not picked up anything in his background to indicate any link to ISIS," he countered. "As far as we know, he has never visited any of the training camps."  
"I'll dig deeper," she offered, and he smiled at her briefly. "There's no time, Ruth."  
"So what do you want to do?"  
He thought about it before replying. "I want to lure Enfield back to London. I want him here for the duration of the operation. Of all the possible role-players involved, he is the most likely to make a mistake." Before she could respond he had lifted the phone and called Juliet.

o0o

Graham pulled the jacket closer around him. There was a bite in the air, even though they were slowly moving towards Spring. Or perhaps it was the adrenaline rushing through his body that was making him shiver. They had reached the mosque and he expected them to enter it, but Kenny headed straight past. Fiona, now stationed across the street from the entrance, murmured into her comms. "They've passed the mosque." From the corner of her eye she saw Zaf wandering towards her. "Alpha Three in sight," she dutifully reported, and Adam made a snap decision.  
"Alpha Two, swap with Alpha Three," he ordered, and both officers acknowledged. She took over the responsibility of trailing after Graham and his companion, and Zaf took her place across from the mosque. Barely a minute later he saw Tu'mah approach and enter the mosque.  
Adam frowned. What was going on? "Malcolm, let's see those building plans for the mosque again," he asked and rolled them open on his knee. "Where's Fiona now?" he asked without looking up and Malcolm answered immediately – his eyes had not left the little moving dot for a second.  
"They seem to be going around the block."  
"What's this line between the mosque and the building behind it?" he asked, pointing at the plans, and the techie glanced briefly at it before returning his gaze to the monitor.  
"A sewage pipe duct."  
Adam squinted at the small figures printed on the line. "And these are its measurements?"  
"Yes."  
"A man could easily fit through there," he mused aloud. "What's the function of that building?"  
"An office block." Malcolm glanced at Adam. "The company currently renting it is clean – we checked," he added, pre-empting the Section Chief's next question.

Everyone froze, and then several things happened before Adam could pose his next question.  
Harry said urgently, "Ruth-" just as she dived for the keyboard and started to type furiously.  
"Already ahead of you," she breathed as she called up information on building ownership in London, and they heard Adam ask, "They're renting it? What about the owners of the building?"  
There was a long pause as Malcolm processed the implications of the question before he merely said, "Oh."  
Ruth came to his rescue before he could add anything else. "The building is owned by a Russian shipping magnate, Anytoly Kerzhakov," she announced, and felt Harry tense behind her. It would seem that his worst fears were becoming true.  
Fiona's voice broke in. "They've entered the office block," she announced. "I have lost sight of them."  
Harry closed his eyes and wiped a hand over his face, and Ruth just looked at him, for once bereft of a solution.

o0o

Graham looked around him inquisitively as they entered the building, momentarily forgetting the peril he might be in. Kenny nodded to the security guard and guided him towards the lift. When they stepped inside, though, it hit him with full force – he might be about to move out of the protective reach of MI-5. Desperate for them to know where he was being taken, he asked casually, "Which floor?", and Kenny answered instinctively.  
"Basement."  
And then the doors slid closed and the signal was lost.

o0o

Adam sprang into action. "Fi, Zaf, you've got to get into that building. We'll watch the mosque," he instructed, and not even Malcolm noticed that he hadn't used call-signs. Zaf sprinted down the street and round the corner whilst Fiona ducked into the surveillance car and hastily began to apply make-up.  
"Ruth, find me someone to meet with in that building," she requested and the analyst punched at her keyboard as fast as she could, painfully aware of Harry's tense presence behind her. By the time Fiona stepped out of the car, once again stylishly groomed, she had found it.  
"There's a Gordon West on the second floor – he's busy organising a PR event for the company," she informed Fiona breathlessly, and as the other woman pushed through the door and into the lobby, Zaf was right behind her in his Burger King outfit, delivery bag in hand. It had all taken no more than five minutes.

Fiona strode up to the Reception counter whilst Zaf headed straight for the lift. "Excuse me,"" she said and smiled sweetly as Zaf called cheerily, "Delivery to third floor, mate." The guard, distracted by Fiona's glamorous presence, nodded absently before cautioning, "You have to sign the register on the way out," and Zaf gave him a thumbs-up and disappeared into the lift. The guard did not notice that the lift went down instead of up as Fiona kept him busy, smoothly talking her way into seeing Mr Gordon West about the PR event.

o0o

Zaf peered around cautiously as the lift opened in the basement, the delivery bag clutched in his hand. If there was a reception committee waiting, it would hopefully cause them to hesitate before acting, and that would give him a chance. But there was no-one in sight. The light was dim and he could make out a long, bare corridor with intermittent doors. They were spaced far apart and he suspected that they led to store rooms. He stepped out gingerly and made his way down the corridor, pausing at each door to listen and to hold a hand-held receiver to it. He moved as soundlessly as he could, careful not to rustle the paper bag he still held in his other hand. When he was about halfway down there was a foot-fall behind him and he spun around, ready to smack whoever it was with the bag, to be faced with Fiona holding up a hand. Zaf sighed in relief before signalling that she should watch their rear, and they moved off together, facing in different directions. Close towards the end of the corridor, snatches of words began writing themselves on the screen in Zaf's hand – it was picking up the transmission from Colin's jacket. Zaf tapped Fiona on the shoulder and showed her the screen, and they crept forward slowly, more cautious than ever. When they reached the second-from-last door, the words suddenly turned into full sentences, and he knew that they had found the meeting-place. He looked at Fiona, to see that she already had her lock-picking kit in her hand, and seconds later she had the door opposite open and they stepped into the dark interior. Zaf silently closed the door and looked at the screen again, and thankfully the sentences continued to appear. They could follow the discussion across the corridor.

Fiona read over Zaf's shoulder until she was certain that Graham was safe and unharmed, before pointing to herself and then upwards, and Zaf understood. She would go back up to inform the others, well aware that Harry in particular would be frantic with worry. Zaf stayed put and followed the conversation.  
Speaker 1: _-are being prosecuted for our faith, even when we have done nothing wrong. Look at what these infidels are doing to the Middle East, meddling and imposing their values on us. Well, we will not take this lying down. The Qur'an forbids it – Allah forbids it!  
_ Zaf decided that this was probably the Syrian speaking.  
Speaker 2: _Yeah, man. The sacred lands are burning. How many innocent people have been killed by the West's bombing raids?  
_ Speaker 1: _Indeed, Kenny. But we can do the same to them. We have a duty to do the same to them!  
_ Speaker 3: _Hold on. What are you saying?  
_ Was this Graham speaking, Zaf wondered?  
Long silence  
Speaker 1: _Kenny, Ashraf, Faroud, Mahmoud, Graham. I am saying you have been chosen by Allah to be glorious warriors in this Holy War._ (Pause) _I envy you. You will be blessed in Heaven.  
_ Speaker 3: _Allah says this? The Qur'an says this? I thought Islam was a religion of peace.  
_ Speaker 1: _You are correct, Graham. It is a religion of peace. But the Qur'an also instructs Muslims to fight for what is right, to set free the oppressed. Are you having doubts?  
_ Speaker 3: _No, no… I just want to be sure what we do is right according to the Scripture.  
_ Speaker 1: _That is good; it is the correct approach. So let us turn to the Qur'an – Book 4, verses 74-76. '_ _Those who barter the life of this world for the next should fight in the way of God. And we shall bestow on him who fights in the way of God, whether he is killed or is victorious, a glorious reward. What has come upon you that you fight not in the cause of God and for the oppressed, men, women and children, who pray: "Get us out of this city, O Lord, whose people are oppressors; so send us a friend by Your will, and send us a helper." Those who believe fight in the way of God; and those who do not, only fight for the powers of evil; so you should fight the allies of Satan. Surely the stratagem of Satan is ineffective.'_

And thus began the radicalisation of five young men in the heart of London.

 _tbc_


	9. Chapter 9

**PART IX: A MISCALCULATION**

 _The most perfidious way of harming a cause consists of defending it deliberately with faulty arguments._

 _ **Friedrich Nietzsche**_

 _Monday 03 April, late night  
The Grid_

The team was gathered in the meeting room, reading through the transcript of the basement meeting. Ruth shook her head when they came to the Qur'anic verses quoted by the Syrian. Unable to stay quiet she blurted, "They're distorting the Qur'an. These verses were written in a specific context – there was an ongoing war and it is meant to say that Muslims have the right to defend themselves when attacked, that violence is permissible in such a situation. It does not mean one can indiscriminately attack non-combatants."  
Harry stared at the screen gloomily. "They hardly have a monopoly on taking verses from their holy book out of context. The Christians have been doing it to the Bible for centuries. You can motivate any modern-day intolerance with a Bible verse or two if you try hard enough."  
Adam broke in, quickly losing patience with the philosophical discussion on the various religions. "It seems pretty incontrovertible that they are planning some sort of attack, though."  
"Agreed," Zaf said. "So do we pick them up?"  
"For what? There is no actual mention of an attack," Fiona argued.  
"She's right," Adam acknowledged, and Harry's eyes flashed mutinously. He knew what was coming and he didn't like it one bit. He wanted Graham out of there, safe and sound, before things went too far. Adam continued, "We have to let it run until we're sure what they're planning. Zaf has managed to plant a listening device in that room and left the receiver close by. We can retrieve the recordings at regular intervals." He looked at their boss as he spoke, wanting his buy-in into the decision, and Harry nodded reluctantly. It was what he would have done, and he had no grounds to object other than that his son was involved.  
"Yes," he stated, "but I want Juliet to bring Enfield back to London for the next few weeks. He's involved somehow, with the Russians, and I want him within reach."  
Ruth looked to Adam, perturbed by the veiled threat behind the words, but the Section Chief seemed unconcerned. "All right," he agreed, before dismissing them.

o0o

 _Fifteen minutes later_

Harry had taken himself to the roof and stood staring out over the twinkling lights of London. He could not go home yet; Juliet was at a function and had promised to come by the Grid on her way home, and he needed some solitude to sort through his emotions. He had run through the gamut during the evening – anxiety, hope, naked fear, borderless relief. Love. It was the depth of the last one that had perhaps surprised him most. Graham was his son and he loved him unconditionally, and no amount of rejection from the young man would ever change that. He would sacrifice himself, do anything it took to keep Graham safe. It was this realisation that forced him now to acknowledge that Adam and Juliet had been right – he could not be in command of this operation. He was hopelessly compromised. The door opened behind him and he swung round, irritated by the intrusion, until he recognised the newcomer, and his irritation instantly dissipated.

Ruth came to a stop next to him and joined him in his silent contemplation of the carpet of lights. "Has Juliet arrived?" he asked, and she shook her head.  
"No. I just… I was worried about you," she confessed softly, and his heart melted. How good it felt to be cared about.  
"I'm fine," he responded, turning towards her. "I wanted some fresh air, that's all." She looked up into his face, seeking visual confirmation of his fine-ness, and their eyes locked and held. _Love_ , he thought again, and his gaze softened as he drank her in, his anchor, his solace, his joy. "Would you like to have dinner again, tomorrow perhaps?" he asked, unable to stop himself, and to his delight she nodded without hesitation.  
"I'd love to," she responded, and they stood smiling at each other like idiots. "Harry?" she said eventually, haltingly; perhaps it was time to let go, to allow him in completely.  
"Hmm?"  
"Do you remember what you asked me that night in the pub?"  
His joy came to a screeching halt, replaced by apprehension, and the smile disappeared from his face. "Yes, I remember," he admitted, steeling himself for her next words.  
"What I wanted to say then, but did not have the courage to, was that the answer is yes. I would have let you."  
It took him a second to process her words, to realise that it was not the rejection he had feared but instead something altogether more wonderful, and his smile slowly came back. "…That's good," he murmured, instantly overcome by desire, and took a step towards her. "So if I were to- right now…" He trailed off and she smiled at him shyly, and nodded.

o0o

Fiona pushed open the door to the roof and spotted Harry and Ruth at the far end. Something in their postures made her hesitate and she stopped, hand on the handle, and watched them. They stood close together, Harry gazing at Ruth tenderly. He said something and she looked up into his face, smiled shyly and nodded. Harry slid an arm around her shoulders and slowly, almost by degrees, gathered her into his chest. Her hands lifted and came to rest on his hips as he pressed a kiss against her forehead, lingering there before moving down to the corner of her eye just as they slid closed. He trailed his lips further down, skimming her cheek, and gently nudged her nose with his before ceasing all movement, his mouth hovering mere millimetres from hers. He waited patiently until Ruth, with a small sigh of surrender, turned her head a fraction and slid their lips together. Harry's free hand rose and settled against her cheek as hers moved under his jacket to wrap her arms around his middle. Fiona retreated, easing the door to behind her soundlessly, and treaded back down the stairs. A small, delighted smile played on her lips; if that had not been a first kiss, she was not married to Adam. She took her time going down, and only once she reached their floor did she take out her mobile and called Harry's number. That should have given them enough time to enjoy a proper snog before they were interrupted.

o0o

They were lost in each other. The kiss started out chastely enough as lips brushed across lips, but soon it was not enough. He wanted to taste her and his lips parted against hers, a wordless invitation, and she immediately reciprocated until they were interlocked. He groaned, unable to restrain himself, and when he won an acknowledging gasp from her his heart soared and took flight. She wanted this as much as he did, and the knowledge dissolved the last of his inhibitions. He devoted himself entirely to the sensations they were creating together, sucking eagerly on her upper lip, pulling the length of her body against his, running his hands up and down her back, brushing the swell of her buttocks on every downward journey. She drew his bottom lip into her mouth and he succumbed happily, letting her have her way for a heady half-minute before taking back control. His tongue flickered against her, asking for entrance, and she opened up for him, no longer able to deny him anything. He plunged into her eagerly, tasting her, savouring this new intimacy. And when she boldly stroked her tongue against his, the pleasure became almost unbearable and he stumbled, pressing her into the railing in his quest to get as close as possible. Vaguely he became aware of a far-off ringing sound – a siren, perhaps, but it was not his concern right then. He had more important matters in hand, namely to kiss Ruth senseless. It took a while, through the fog of desire, to register that she was trying to form words against his lips and he drew back unwillingly, giving her a chance to speak.  
"Your phone," she managed breathlessly, and he finally realised what the ringing was.  
"Bugger it," he said cavalierly before lowering his mouth back to hers and she capitulated without argument, fusing their lips together once more. But the ringing did not stop, and eventually he tore his mouth from hers with a muttered curse.

"Sorry," he apologised as he fumbled for the irritating device in his pocket, his other hand gliding down her arm to intertwine their fingers, unwilling to break all physical contact between them. " _What_ ," he barked into the mobile and she smirked at his frustration as she rested her forehead against his tie and tried to catch her breath. He smelt good, even after a long, stressful day, and she luxuriated in this new-found freedom to touch, to taste, to smell. "Yes, all right," he said, his voice rumbling in his chest and she had to fight the urge to wind her arms round him once more. She felt delirious, as though the only thing anchoring her to this roof was his solidity, and she didn't want to give it up. He seemed to share that feeling as he sighed deeply and wound his arms around her, resting his chin on her head. "Juliet's here," he explained quietly as he held her against him and stared out over the lights of his beloved London. She nestled into his embrace and he could have stayed there forever, just holding her, contemplating the fact that he had finally found someone to which that description could also apply: Ruth Evershed, beloved of Harry Pearce. But duty called, and with a final kiss pressed into her hair he reluctantly began the process of disentanglement.

o0o

When he entered his office Juliet was installed on his sofa, one foot tapping impatiently. She was still in her evening-wear. He took care to school his features into a neutral expression but it was a struggle, and when she cocked her head and studied him with interest he wondered whether it was obvious that he'd just been thoroughly snogged. He went straight to the heart of the matter in an effort to distract her.  
"I want you to lure George Enfield back to London," he announced without preamble and she froze, astonished.  
"What for?" she asked, astonishment quickly replaced by suspicion, and he provided her with a brief summary of the latest developments.  
Suspicion turned to alarm and she sat forward, emphasising every word as she spoke. "Let me get this straight: you suspect that the new US Intelligence Advisor is somehow involved in a planned terror attack on British soil, with the help of the Russians, and now you want me to lure him back here?! I don't think so."  
Harry's expression hardened. "Why not?" he inquired icily and she threw up a hand at his obtuseness.  
"Because if I do, you are likely to cause an international incident and do untold damage to the Special Relationship with the Americans."

His face darkened with barely suppressed anger. "So you are comfortable with them getting away with it," he ground out and she hesitated, taken aback by the level of his fury. It was dangerous and palpable, and she spread her hands defensively.  
"No, I'm not comfortable with it. Far from it. But I have a responsibility to look at the bigger picture and frankly, so do you. You want him in reach for a reason, and that worries me. If he disappears without trace whilst on our patch, you think the Americans will believe that we had nothing to do with it?"  
She stared at him challengingly and he reined in his anger. Graham's face swam in front of him and just for a second his despair flashed across his face. "And if I gave you my word that I won't touch him?" he tried, looking at her entreatingly.  
"Harry-"  
"Graham is my _son_ , Juliet," he implored, and she sighed, her face softening momentarily.  
"How would I even get him here?" she asked resignedly and Harry shrugged, sensing victory.  
"Dangle something shiny in front of him," he said dismissively, "that ought to do it," and she rolled her eyes in annoyance. They watched each other for long seconds as she made up her mind, aware that she owed him this much.  
"All right," she agreed reluctantly, and he could not hide his relief.

o0o

 _Tuesday 04 April, early morning  
Hyde Park_

This time Harry was the first to arrive, and he absently studied the Animals in War memorial as he waited for his American counterpart. He was about to gamble again, and Juliet would have conniptions if she had any inkling of what he was about to do, but he didn't care in the least. His main concern remained the safety of his son, as well as that of all the possible innocent victims of a terror attack, and he would explore all possible avenues open to him, no matter the political prudency of these avenues. And whilst he had promised Juliet that he would not lay a hand on Enfield, that didn't mean that others couldn't. He remained convinced that the brash American was the key to the whole unsavoury business, but he was going to need help in turning that key. The park was more or less deserted this early on a cold morning, which was exactly what he had wanted, and as a result he could see Carl Morris coming from a long way off. Harry's gaze swept past him, checking for tails, but he couldn't spot anything. He was grateful that this man was the current CIA Head of Station in London; Harry felt he could trust him with sensitive matters, and this has seldom been the case in his long association with the American service.

Morris reached him and nodded amiably. "So. What's so important that you had to drag me out of my bed in these cold temperatures?" The words were accompanied by a smile, to show that there were no hard feelings.  
Harry returned the smile fleetingly. "Cold? This isn't cold. It's no more than bracing," he responded and Morris chuckled. As they talked they circled the monument slowly, keeping an eye out for curious onlookers. He waited until they reached the horse on the northern side before he spoke again. "We've asked Enfield back to London," he announced in a low voice. "He arrives tomorrow."  
The American raised an eyebrow. "Is this because of the possible terror attack? You're still convinced he's somehow connected to it?"  
"Yes. But we now believe he is involved at the behest of, or with the help of, the Russians," Harry stated simply, and Morris looked at him sharply.  
"The Russians?" he echoed. "You have evidence of this?"  
"…Not incontrovertibly," Harry conceded, then added quickly, "but the coincidences are mounting." He explained about Enfield's visits to Russia, the Syrian's counter-surveillance skills, and the meetings in the basement of the Russian-owned building. "We're still tracing the Syrian's history, but I would bet my house that he had been in a Russian intelligence training camp somewhere in his past."

The American absorbed this wordlessly. "So what do you want from us?" he asked eventually, under the impression that he was there as the CIA representative.  
But then the British spook said evenly, "In your capacity as a representative of the US government – nothing."  
Morris frowned. "I don't understand."  
Harry took a deep breath and plunged in. "I am asking for your help in a private capacity, as a fellow professional of intelligence and integrity." He paused, and added quietly, "And as a father. What I have in mind is not sanctioned by my government."  
They watched each other over the broad back of the horse, measuring their respective resolve. At length Morris nodded slowly. "If you find evidence that the Syrian has been trained by the Russians, and that Enfield is acting on their behest, you will have it."

o0o

 _Wednesday 05 April, early evening  
Westminster_

Juliet smiled brightly at George Enfield as she introduced him to yet another potential business associate. Although Harry had made his comment about dangling something shiny in front of the American disparagingly, it had given her an idea. So she had lured him back with the promise of a lucrative pending business partnership. Harry was also there, drifting around the edges of the gathering watchfully. His demeanour reminded her of a cobra she had once seen in a nature programme, hood flared and half of the body upright, focussing with an unblinking stare on its prey. It was disquieting, but thankfully Enfield was too busy enjoying the fawning attentions of his potential business partners to notice. She couldn't help but wonder, though, whether Harry would keep his word, and his hands off Enfield. She would have to keep a careful eye on him. The last thing they needed was an international spat with Donald Trump.

Harry waited until Enfield had guzzled down at least six glasses of champagne before he approached him. "Mr Enfield," he announced his presence, "welcome back to London."  
Enfield's face split into a large grin. "Hairy," he boomed and slapped an arm around the other man's shoulders. "My favourite Pom," he added with a distinct leer before leaning in conspiratorially. "Say, any chance of a reunion with that tasty whore of yours?"  
Harry fought down his irritation and revulsion. The man did not even have the decency to learn her name. "I'm sure something can be arranged," he conceded, "if you stay in London for the next week or so."  
"Oh, uh, sure. I'm sure I can rearrange my schedule," he agreed eagerly, and Harry smiled mirthlessly.  
"Good then. I'll be in touch."  
"I won't be available tomorrow though," Enfield confided, "I have some private matters to attend to."  
Harry nodded and filed the information away. Could the private matters be connected to the terror threat?

o0o

 _Wednesday 05 April, late evening  
Clapham North_

Graham walked home with Kenny after their session with the Syrian, deeply perturbed. It had been the fourth such meeting and Tu'mah's pronouncements were becoming increasingly militant and extremist. Graham no longer harboured any doubts as to where this was heading – they were being groomed for suicide missions. What concerned him even more was that none of the others seemed to realise it or, if they did, they were apparently not worried about it. He glanced at his companion, wondering if he should say something. He owed Kenny; the man had been there for him through one of the darkest periods of his life, and he couldn't stand by and watch as he and the others were led up the garden path by this Syrian. He should at least try.  
"Kenny," he began, feeling his way uncertainly, "do you have any idea what we are being prepared for?"  
His friend turned towards him, eyes burning with religious fervour. "All will be revealed to us when the time is right," he responded and then added, "when Allah deems it is time for us to know."  
Graham frowned, troubled by the easy acceptance. "Of course, but you can see where this is going, can't you?" he pressed and Kenny stopped walking and turned to him.  
"What do you mean?" he asked, and for the first time there was a hint of steel in his voice.  
Graham chose to ignore it, desperate to reach his friend, to save him. "He's grooming us for suicide missions," he blurted, and the other man's face turned hard and inscrutable in a heartbeat.  
"It is not our place to question the destiny Allah chooses for us," he said coldly and a shiver ran down Graham's spine. "Even if you are right, then we are especially blessed, part of the chosen few called to make the highest possible sacrifice." He took a step towards Graham, and there was no mistaking the menace in his eyes when he asked quietly, "Can we depend on you, Graham? Or will you betray Allah, your faith and your friends?"

And that's when Graham realised that he'd miscalculated. Hurriedly he tried to backtrack. "What? Yes of course you can. Why do you ask?"  
"You sound like you have doubts," Kenny said, staying up in his face, and Graham called on all his reserves to remain calm.  
He took refuge in belligerence, like he had seen his father do so many times. _Never acknowledge weakness_. "Did I say that?!"  
The coal-black eyes of his sponsor watched him calculatingly, gauging the truth behind the words, before relenting with a small smile. "You had me scared for a moment there, man," he said, clapping Graham on the shoulder and propelling him down the street once more. "We are going to do great things together, yeah? Our names will be in the annals of Islam as martyrs, next to each other, for eternity."  
"Yeah," Graham agreed with false enthusiasm, grinning back at the other man. All he wanted to do was get away and talk to his dad.

o0o

When Harry stepped back on the Grid only one desk-lamp still burned, and he headed straight for it. Ruth had looked up at the swishing of the pods and she watched him approach, unable to help herself. He was in his tuxedo and she admired his appearance for the few seconds it took him to cross the floor and come to a halt in front of her desk. "Why are you still here?" he chided, "it's late."  
"I've found something on Tu'mah," she explained, "and I'm following up."  
He tilted his head in invitation and she elaborated. "I don't think you'll be surprised to learn that Imad Tu'mah is not his real name. He was born Adnan Elazar, and I'm checking whether I can pick up anything under that name."  
"Good, good." Harry frowned thoughtfully as he contemplated the information. "Can you focus on his travel history – see whether he went anywhere that was under Russian control at the time of his visit?"  
"Already busy with that." She gestured in the direction of her computer and he smiled gratefully at her. So dependable. So completely wonderful. He gazed at her, his mind overflowing with images from their dinner date the previous evening, which had ended in another round of enthusiastic kissing. He could still remember the taste of her – a combination of coffee and frangipani, from the dessert she had devoured with such relish. He could not wait to kiss her again, so he said, "Let me know when you're done and I'll give you a lift home."  
And the way a blush tinged her cheeks as she murmured, "Okay, thanks," he suspected that her thoughts had followed the same path as his. He could not suppress a grin as he turned away; buoyed by the knowledge that the desire was entirely mutual. In his case, of course, it was quickly turning into lust – he wanted more. Access to more skin to kiss, for a start. He wanted to kiss every inch of her, to touch every part of her. And yes, he wanted to make love to her, to join with her in that most intimate physical act possible between two humans. His thoughts were beginning to run away with him and when his mobile rang, he almost jumped. To his surprise it was Graham, and immediately his elation was replaced by alarm. Something must be terribly wrong for his son to call him.  
"Graham?" he asked apprehensively, and heard a sigh of relief at the other end. He'd stopped walking and turned to find Ruth watching him, concern etched on her face as well.  
"Dad?" Graham said, and Harry felt a rush of love so strong it almost overwhelmed him. But before he could form any words, his son hurried on. "Dad, I think I've just made a huge mistake."

And just like that, all joy evaporated from Harry's world.

 _tbc_


	10. Chapter 10

**PART X: SINS OF THE PAST**

 _What can you say to a man who tells you he prefers obeying God rather than men, and that as a result he's certain he'll go to heaven if he cuts your throat?_

 _ **Voltaire**_

 _Wednesday 05 April, late evening  
The Grid_

The anguish in his son's voice knifed through Harry. "Are you all right?" he asked urgently, "are you in danger?"  
"What? Uh. No. Not right now," the young man answered, unexpectedly warmed by his father's concern.  
Harry released a relieved breath. "Good. Now tell me what happened."  
Graham relayed his conversation with Kenny in as much detail as he could remember, instinctively aware that the smallest point could make a difference to the operation. As soon as Harry recognised the nature of the incident he gravitated back to Ruth's desk and put the call on speaker so that she could listen in.  
"I'm sorry," Graham ended, sounding crestfallen, "if I've ruined everything."  
"No need to apologise," his father responded crisply. "You were trying to save your friend, and I think that rather noble."  
Ruth gave him a small smile, aware that, just for a moment, she had been in the presence of Harry the man rather than Harry the Intelligence Officer. With it came a realisation that once someone he loved deeply became involved, Harry was as incapable as the next man of setting aside his emotions, of putting the country first. And she pondered: was this why he had remained unattached for so long?

When Graham spoke again, his voice sounded firmer, assured by Harry's response. "I don't understand it," he stated, his bewilderment evident. "Kenny is an intelligent guy. How could he fall for this? How could he allow Imad to talk him into killing himself and a score of innocent people?"  
Harry looked toward Ruth, proud that his son, at least, had not fallen for the Syrian's rhetoric. "Yes. That is the eternal question. But religion is not rational, Graham. It never has been. I think more people have been killed in the name of religion than for any other cause."  
"There must be something I can say to get through to him," the younger Pearce persisted, and Ruth wondered whether Harry was aware that both his children had inherited his desire to save the world, to fight injustice. Graham might not have it on the same scale as Catherine did, but he did have a decent dose of it.  
"Ruth is with me," Harry said, "I'll let her respond."  
The words were met by a surprised silence at the other end of the line and Harry belatedly realised that his son might jump to the wrong conclusion – well, not wrong in the sense that his father was seeing his analyst, but that their current togetherness was pleasure-related. Too bad, there was no time now to correct him.

Ruth took a breath to order her thoughts. "That is probably one of the most difficult questions to answer," she began slowly and Harry, sensing a lecture coming on, dragged another chair up to her desk and settled himself to listen. "But unfortunately, the short answer is no, there is probably nothing you can do."  
"Why not?"  
"Well, for one thing, it is extremely difficult to argue against a religious motivation. If a person firmly believes that it is indeed an order from God – Allah – to do something, only a counter-order from the same source will nullify it." That was no help and Graham did not respond, so Ruth continued. "There is a theory that suicide bombers are spurred on by a pre-existing psychological motivation. In other words, there is already a desire to commit suicide, but by doing it for religious reasons the perpetrator tries to give the act meaning, to justify it." She looked at Harry and added, "I'm not sure, though, that this theory isn't based on our Western minds' need to make sense of the inexplicable, rather than fact."  
Graham absorbed this. "Yeah, not sure this applies to Kenny. He is always so upbeat – I have never picked up any indication that he wants to kill himself."  
Ruth shrugged, caught up in the conversation and forgetting that the young man couldn't see her. "There aren't always signs," she said gently. "Some people go to great lengths to hide their intentions until the day they actually commit suicide."

Graham knew this was true; if one moved in the circles he did, you were apt to be exposed to suicide at some time. "I'll keep that in mind. But is there any religious argument I could make? You know, show him from the Qur'an that it's wrong?"  
"Of course you can, but if his mind is made up it will likely fall on deaf ears," she responded. Harry rested his chin on one hand and listened attentively, unexpectedly warmed by the conversation, the evident intellectual connection between his wayward son and the woman he loved. Ruth continued, oblivious to his scrutiny. "For instance, the Qur'an explicitly states that suicide is forbidden in 4:29 and 30, and this is further expounded on in the Hadith-Bukhari 7:670." She quoted, " _'The Prophet said, "Whoever purposely throws himself from a mountain and kills himself, will be in the (Hell) Fire falling down into it and abiding therein perpetually forever; and whoever drinks poison and kills himself with it, he will be carrying his poison in his hand and drinking it in the (Hell) Fire wherein he will abide eternally forever; and whoever kills himself with an iron weapon, will be carrying that weapon in his hand and stabbing his abdomen with it in the (Hell) Fire wherein he will abide eternally forever."'_ Of course, the hadiths are deemed to be inferior to the Qur'an so people conveniently ignore them. But they are also the words of the Prophet and cannot be discarded by serious Muslims."

She took a breath and her gaze drifted to Harry, and she was almost bowled over by the look on his face. Admiration, gratitude and ardour could be read plainly on his features in the most unguarded expression she had seen yet, and she momentarily lost the thread of the conversation. Graham's voice brought her back. "He said we'd be seen as martyrs."  
"No, that's not true. If you were to die at the enemy's hand in a combat situation, _then_ you would be a martyr in Allah's eyes. You must have a chance of survival, no matter how miniscule, and Allah will decide whether you live or die. But to die by your own hand whilst attacking non-combatants will not make you a martyr. Death is certain for you and takes control away from Allah. It is _haram_ – forbidden by Islamic law. Only Allah can grant martyrdom, one cannot take it by force."  
"Okay," Graham said wearily, "thanks Ruth. Maybe I can try again to convince him of the error of his ways."  
Harry roused himself at that. "I'd prefer if you didn't," he said hastily. "Don't focus any further attention on yourself. Rather wait until we have foiled the attack and have everyone safe."  
To Harry's surprise his son agreed readily, and this more than anything conveyed his discomfort with the situation. "Do you still need me in there?" Graham asked in a small voice, and it broke Harry's heart.  
"Just for a few more days," he responded. "It'll create suspicion if you suddenly disappear. But I'll speak to Adam – we won't leave you in there for one second longer than necessary."  
"Right, thanks," Graham said, and after a beat added on impulse, "Dad? I know you'll do everything you can to keep me safe." He disconnected before Harry could respond, and when the older man closed his eyes against the emotion, Ruth reached out and grasped his hand.

o0o

 _Half an hour later_

He did not get to take Ruth home, in the end. He needed to speak to Adam, so half an hour later he found himself on the doorstep of his Section Chief. Adam opened promptly to his knock, forewarned by a phone call that Harry was on his way, and beckoned him inside.  
"Tea? Something stronger?" he offered, but Harry shook his head.  
"No. Where's Fiona?"  
"She's checking on Wes," Adam replied, and a shadow crossed the older man's face. How he wished that his son was still a boy, safe in his mother's house.  
"And how is young Wesley?"  
Adam watched him sympathetically. "A touch of flu, but he's okay. No fever."  
"Good," Harry responded, and squared his shoulders. "I want Graham pulled out," he announced with quiet conviction.  
"Harry-" Adam protested wearily, but the other man overrode him.  
"He's in danger," he said brusquely, and when Adam frowned in confusion, he briefly relayed his son's conversation with Kenny. "They'll be watching him, and if they pick up on his connection with us…" He took a breath, unable to bring himself to say it. "We have surveillance on their meeting place, we don't need him anymore."  
"You know that's not true," Adam objected gently. "We have no guarantee that they will discuss everything they are about to do in that storage room. Besides, it will create suspicion if he disappears now." He felt terrible; Harry's anguish was almost tangible, and he wanted nothing more than to give him what he wanted. But he could not; it was his responsibility to safeguard the country, and that had to take precedence over all else. This was what Harry dealt with on a daily basis, he realised, these terrible decisions about life and death. He'd done it for so many years, and yet he was still standing, still sane, still fundamentally a good man. His respect for his boss had grown exponentially during this operation, and he was grateful that he would soon be able to hand back the reins. "I'm sorry," he added softly, and there was no doubting that it was heart-felt.  
Harry dropped his gaze. He had known there was no chance, really, but he owed it to his son to try. So he nodded despondently. "Yes. You take care of Wes," he said, and it was almost an order. _Don't make the same mistakes I have._

As he turned to leave, his mobile rang, and it was Ruth. Her suppressed excitement was palpable through the phone as she announced breathlessly, "I've got it. Tu'mah was in Afghanistan in 1988. There was a Russian intelligence training camp in Fayzabad at that time and I have managed to get my hands on the records of the people trained there. Adnan Elazar attended a counter-surveillance course from September to November. And guess who was one of the instructors," she closed triumphantly.  
Harry's neck pricked. "Anytoly Kerzhakov," he responded, certain that he was right. "The owner of that building where the meetings take place."  
"Yes," she confirmed.

They had their link.

o0o

 _Thursday 06 April, pre-dawn  
Lambeth Bridge_

Harry's eyes felt gritty; he'd only had a couple of hours' sleep and he sipped at the take-away coffee in his hand gratefully. A light drizzle fell but he hardly noticed it; his focus was inward, on his concern for his son. Footsteps approached from his left and he turned his head to watch the American approach, and to his surprise Morris didn't look much better than him. He nodded a greeting and asked, "Late night?"  
"Yeah," Morris stifled a yawn. "I don't have much time," he added and Harry got straight to the point.  
"We have found a link between the Syrian and the Russians." He explained succinctly and Morris listened in silence, perturbed. Then he turned to Harry and gave him a long, penetrating look.  
"In that case you're not going to like what I have to tell you," he began, and icy fingers tapped down Harry's spine. "You remember those visits of Enfield to Russia? Well, we've confirmed that one of the people he met with over there was Kerzhakov." He hesitated, then added almost reluctantly, "And he has a meeting scheduled with the man for this morning, here in London."  
Harry clasped both hands around the railing and leant heavily on his arms. This was not good; it was not good at all. "Do you know where?"  
"No."  
"Can you put surveillance on him?" he asked bluntly; the time for pussyfooting around was long past.  
Morris stared at him, conflicted. He was a patriot, and this Englishman was asking him to spy on a US government official. How could he justify such an act?  
As though he'd read the American's thoughts, Harry said harshly, "Enfield is colluding with the Russians to perpetrate a terror attack on British soil. If you do nothing, you will be complicit."  
Morris dropped his gaze and sighed. "All right. I'll let you know as soon as I have anything."

The conversation had seemingly come to an end, but neither man moved. Morris glanced sideways at the other man before asking, "Why do you think Enfield is doing this?"  
Harry took his time before answering. "I can't say for certain. But my best guess is that he was one of the Trump groupies the Russians targeted during the campaign. They were hoping to use these people to influence your President's decision-making."  
"Yes, I got that far as well. But what possible purpose could this attack serve?"  
"I don't know," the British spook admitted. "But Trump has been widely condemned in the West for his draconian policies towards Muslims – maybe this is an attempt to justify those policies and buy him some goodwill."  
"But why here? Why not stage an attack in the US then?"  
"Because it would make Trump look weak."  
Morris stared at the sluggish river below them, deeply troubled. If Harry Pearce was right, this was a callous enterprise to shore up a wobbling, weak President, and it was unforgivable. He made his choice. "There's something else you should know: Tonight we will launch a missile attack on Syrian government positions, in retaliation for their recent use of chemical weapons on the rebels."

o0o

 _11:25  
Clapham North_

The embassy car pulled up in front of the office building and George Enfield reached for the door. "Go get a cup of coffee," he told the driver, "I'll call you when I'm ready to leave." With that he stepped out and disappeared into the building. The driver waited until he was out of sight before he made a call.  
"He went into an office block in Clapham North," he informed the person on the other end, and provided the address.  
Back in Grosvenor Square Carl Morris replaced the receiver and reached for another phone – this one the secure line between the US Embassy and the British Intelligence Services. He called Harry Pearce's direct number, and reported what he had learnt. There was a brief pause, then Harry replied tersely, "That is Kerzhakov's building."

o0o

 _The Grid_

They assembled around Ruth's desk and Harry informed them of the latest development. Adam reached for his mobile and instructed Zaf to get over to the office building and see what he could find out. As soon as he disconnected the call the phone rang again, and this time it was Jo. "Tu'mah has just entered the mosque," she reported, and Adam looked at Harry.  
"That must mean that they'll be meeting in the basement – surely Enfield can't be seen talking to this man openly in an office," he opined, and Harry concurred. "And we have the surveillance in place, at least we'll know what they discussed," the Section Chief continued, but Harry remained uneasy.  
"Will we know soon enough? I suspect the Syrian will use the pending US bombing to reveal his true plans to the five young men tonight. Things are going to develop quickly from now on. And if there is the slightest doubt about Graham's commitment, they're going to do something about it today. Is someone keeping an eye on his flat?" he asked, and Adam nodded.  
"Yeah, Colin is out there in the van. We have it wired, so we'll know if anyone enters." But all the same he turned to Fiona. "Better get over there as well, we don't want to be caught short-handed."

When Zaf got to the office building a few minutes later, he found the basement entirely sealed off by Russian goons. There was no way he would be able to retrieve the recording until after they had left. When he reported this to the Grid, Harry closed his eyes and Ruth looked worried. Adam said nothing, knowing that their hands were tied for now.

o0o

 _Clapham North_

Enfield paced the length of the storage room whilst they waited for the Syrian, glancing at his Russian companion every now and then. Kerzhakov was a big man, with a once powerful body now running to fat, and he sat on a chair and smoked, ignoring the pacing American. Theirs was a marriage of convenience and he did not bother to pretend that he liked the other man. Kerzhakov was former KGB, and when Putin had called and instructed him to assist in Russia's operation to ensnare the men close to Donald Trump, he had obeyed. One did not say no to Vladimir Putin without consequences, and he enjoyed his comfortable life here in London. The door opened and the Syrian stepped through, and the two men turned to him in unison. The Russian lumbered to his feet and held out his hand. "Hello, Adnan," he greeted, using the Syrian's original name, "how are the preparations going?"  
The Syrian shook the proffered hand and turned hooded eyes to the third man. "Who is this please?" he asked in his beautiful voice, and Enfield bristled. The Russian smirked; the American expected everyone to recognise him now.  
"This is George Enfield, on whose behalf you have been working these last few months."  
The Syrian frowned. "It is a risk, bringing him here," he said disapprovingly, and Enfield blanched.  
"He is here because he calls the shots," the Russian said opaquely, and Tu'mah's face turned hard and expressionless. "Are you ready?" Kerzhakov asked the Syrian, who nodded.  
"I have five men ready to go."  
The Russian looked pointedly at Enfield, who dutifully took over. "Good, because I want it done tomorrow."  
"Tomorrow?! You said Easter, which is a week away," Tu'mah protested.  
"I know what I said, but now I'm changing it."  
"The impact will be much less-" the Syrian began, but Enfield overrode him.  
"The mighty US military is about to give you something else that will boost the impact," he stated, grinning, and even Kerzhakov looked at him in surprise. He spread his arms wide and proclaimed, "A soon as darkness falls on the Al Shayrat airfield from where the Syrian government launched those chemical attacks on the rebels, we will light it up again."

There was a stunned silence. "You are going to launch a missile strike against a Syrian government target?" Kerzhakov asked in disbelief; his government would not be happy about this.  
"Yes. Now, who have you got?" Enfield asked the Syrian. "Are they all immigrants, or children of immigrants?"  
Tu'mah was watching the American with some distaste. "All but one."  
This brought Enfield up short. "Who's the other one?"  
"His father is a big-shot in the civil service. I think it will carry weight if such a man, raised in privilege, turned against his country and his father."  
Enfield looked dubious. "Is he at least black?" he asked, oblivious that the man in front of him was also a person of colour and might take offense.  
"He is white," Tu'mah responded coldly, and the American immediately shook his head.  
"No. That won't do. Get rid of him. You can still go ahead with four."  
"How am I supposed to get rid of him now? By this time they have all guessed what they're being prepared for – he might go to the authorities."  
Enfield looked to Kerzhakov, who shook his head unobstrusively, and the American took a breath. "Then you better silence him," he said. "Hell, he's a former druggie, right? Just shoot him full of shit and dump him on the street."

Across the passage the recorder ran silently, but there was no-one to listen to it.

o0o

 _17:00_

When Graham and Kenny entered the basement, he noticed the burly men stationed at opposite ends of the passage and a tendril of fear began to curl around his heart. "Who are they?" he asked, but Kenny did not respond. Come to think of it, his friend had been aloof ever since collecting him from his place of work earlier, telling him the evening's meeting had been brought forward. Something was wrong, and he had been too obtuse to notice it. Oh, God, what was about to happen? "Kenny?" he asked again, openly fearful this time, but the other man would not respond. He thought about running, but when he looked round one of the burly men was right behind him, ready and alert. He looked back to the front to see Imad Tu'mah step from the storage room, his face dark and forbidding. He held something in his hand and when Graham managed to focus on it, he realised it was a hypodermic needle. He turned and ran anyway, but connected with a hard body and was easily lifted from his feet. Fear squeezed the breath from his body; he wanted to plead but he couldn't get the words out. Tears began to stream down his cheeks as they pinned him down and wrestled his arm into position, and then the Syrian was tapping the crook of his elbow for a vein. At last he found his voice, and he was babbling, pleading, promising, entreating, but Kenny just stood and watched. He felt the stinging sensation, and watched in horror as Tu'mah pressed down the plunger and emptied the syringe into his bloodstream. It was too much, he would overdose, and he tried to tell them as the heroin began to race through his bloodstream. "Too much," he said, as the world began to spin, "…too much…" And then he was lost.

Tu'mah turned to Kenny. "Where can they dump him? It needs to be somewhere that will cause maximum embarrassment to his father."  
"…Asherton Alley," Kenny said, shaken by the whole experience. "He was arrested there once – it's where rent boys pick up men."  
The Syrian nodded, satisfied, and turned to the two Russians. "Take him there. Go through to the mosque, don't leave from this building." He watched wordlessly as they hefted the tripping man and carried him away.

 _tbc_


	11. Chapter 11

**PART XI: RACE AGAINST TIME**

 _Death twitches my ear;  
_ ' _Live,' he says…  
_ ' _I'm coming.'_

 _ **Virgil**_

 _Thursday 06 April, 17:05  
Clapham North_

Zaf and Fiona loitered across the street from the office block. They had been there since the morning, but no opportunity had presented itself for them to get in and retrieve the recording. There were three big men stationed outside the entrance, obviously Russian, but as they watched two black Range Rovers pulled up and Kerzhakov exited with a few more men trailing in his wake. The cars sped off and Zaf looked at Fiona. "Come on." They sprinted across the road and into the building, not bothering to report to the Reception. They descended the stairs swiftly but silently, and Zaf peeped through the door at the bottom to find the passage deserted. He nodded at Fiona and they made their way to the end of the passage and slipped into the storage room where they had set up their surveillance. Fiona downloaded what was already there, and made her way back up to street level to transmit it to the Grid, whilst Zaf remained behind to listen in on the evening's meeting. They had seen Kenny and Graham enter and had assumed that the meeting would start earlier, but when Zaf put on the headphones he only heard two voices – that of the Syrian and Kenny. He frowned; where was Graham? And where were the other three young men who attended these meetings? Something was wrong. He decided to go back up and report the anomalies.

He found Fiona outside, talking to Malcolm back on the Grid. "Did it download all right?" She nodded, satisfied, before her eyes widened in surprise as she saw Zaf. As he reached her he was already on the comms.  
"Adam, something's off," she heard him say and stiffened. Adam was in the surveillance van a few blocks away, and behind them waited another van, containing the Special Forces unit that would assist with the apprehension of the prospective terrorists.  
"What's wrong?" Adam asked, aware that Harry would be listening in on the Grid. _Please, let it not be Graham_.  
"Kenny and Graham entered the building at five, but the surveillance is only picking up the voices of Kenny and the Syrian. Graham's not there."  
Harry, who had been lounging against Jo's desk as he listened to the comms, straightened in alarm.  
"Could he have left again?" Adam asked and Zaf glanced at Fiona. "Not through the office block. We would have seen him."  
This was a disaster. "Jo," Adam said urgently, "did you see Graham leave through the mosque?"  
"No," the young spook reported. "The only activity in the last half-hour was a transport van leaving from round the back." Even as she spoke the implications sunk in and they heard her exclaim, "Shit."  
"Which way did they go?" Adam demanded sharply as his mind swirled. What should he do? Should he direct all their resources towards finding Graham? Or should he keep them in their positions and focus on the terrorists? He felt sweat pearl on his upper lip; how did Harry make these decisions?  
"Towards the train station," Jo said miserably, and Adam made the hardest decision of his life. "Okay. Everyone hold position," he instructed, closing his eyes. _I'm sorry, Harry. So, so sorry_. "Colin, see if you can trace that van. Zaf, get back to the basement."

Ruth looked at Harry, her heart in her mouth. The blood had drained from his face and he stood gripping the desk for support. He could not believe what the Section Chief had just done. He was no longer a rational being, he was only a father whose son's life was in danger.  
"Adam," he hissed hoarsely, but the man in question cut him off before he could continue.  
"The lives of the many take precedence over one," he said brutally, trying to pre-empt any debate, and Harry looked about him wildly. Ruth got to her feet, but before she could intervene Harry spoke again.  
"Joanna, I order you to go after that van," he barked in a voice that brooked no opposition, and poor Jo actually took a few steps in the direction of the station before Adam's voice stopped her cold.  
"Jo, you will not. You will stay in position until I tell you otherwise."  
"Harry," Ruth said, reaching a hand towards him. Her heart was breaking for him – he was like a cornered animal, desperate, looking around for an escape route. And that was when Malcolm stood suddenly, eyes wide and face pale.  
"You need to listen to this."

He patched the comms into the recording and they listened to the meeting between Kerkhazov, Enfield and the Syrian. They heard the American callously order the death of Graham, and the Russian say to the Syrian, "Do it."  
Harry felt like his heart had been wrenched from his chest, like all his blood had been drained from his body, that he was only an empty shell of a man now. He had done this to his son. He had once again failed to protect him, and now these people had killed him. They had used that weakness Graham had been so proud of overcoming against him, and now he would be remembered for giving in to it one last, fatal time. It was that realisation that decided him. If Adam wouldn't do it, he would do it himself, and bugger the consequences. He turned and made for the pods.  
"Where are you going?" Ruth exclaimed in alarm.  
"To find my son," he said as she trotted after him.  
"Where, Harry? Where are you going to look for him?" she urged, and he swung towards her. She took a step back in the face of his anger.  
"I have to do something!" he said vehemently, and there was such desperation in those words that she forgave him immediately for yelling at her.  
"I know," she acknowledged, and his shoulders dropped.  
"I have to try," he said again, plaintively, and her heart broke for him.  
"I know," she repeated as well, "but keep your mobile at hand. Please? I'll let you know as soon as we have anything."  
He nodded. "Thanks." Belatedly he added, "Sorry for shouting," and she managed a wan smile.  
"It's all right." She squeezed his arm. "Good luck."

But before he could scan his access card to open the pods, Malcolm popped up from behind his screen. "Harry!" he shouted, agitated, and they both swung towards him. "There's more. On the surveillance recording. It was faint – they must have been outside the room, but I've managed to clear it up and enhance it."  
They stepped over to his desk and listened in agonised silence as Graham begged for his life, but at least, clearly heard at the end of it all, was Kenny's voice telling them to dump him in Asherton Alley. Malcolm and Ruth looked at each other in consternation, and then both pairs of eyes jumped to Harry guiltily. He barely registered it, too distressed about Graham to care about anything else. Ruth cleared her throat. "Graham was arrested there once," she explained, but Harry was already on his way to the pods.  
"I know," he threw over his shoulder. "I've known all along," he added, and then he was through the pods, and Ruth was frantically dialling for an ambulance.

Adam had also been listening, and his resolve broke under the despair in that young man's voice. The young man that he had drawn into this, that he had manipulated into helping them. Asherton Alley was only five minutes away from where they were, whilst it would take Harry much longer to get there. And when his wife said pleadingly, "Adam…" he capitulated.  
"All right Fi, go," he said, and she jumped into the car and sped off.  
Ruth had heard and her gratitude knew no bounds. "Thanks Adam," she replied quietly and Adam smiled, feeling a lot better than he had a few minutes ago.  
"It's what Harry would have done," he responded simply, and even as he said the words he knew it was true. It was one of the traits he admired most in the older man – that he had not yet lost his compassion. He might have to suppress it on occasion to get the job done, but he allowed it to influence his decisions whenever possible. Now all they could do was hope Fiona and the ambulance would get there in time. In the meantime, the rest of them still had a job to do. "Right," he said briskly, "everyone else get ready. The fun is about to start."

o0o

 _Five minutes later  
Asherton Alley_

Fiona screeched to a halt at the mouth of the alley and jumped from the car. She trotted down the narrow street, scanning her surroundings anxiously. "Graham!" she called, even though she knew the chances were slim that he would be able to answer. Towards the other end she saw two young boys crouched over what looked like a bundle of blankets, and she called out to them. "Hey! Did you see a van dump something here a few minutes ago?" They looked up, startled by her voice, and took one look at her elegant clothes and scampered. "Hey!" she yelled again, and threw up a hand helplessly. Then she looked back at the bundle of blankets, and saw something pale stick out from it. It was an arm, a human arm, and she broke into a run.  
Back on the Grid Malcolm and Ruth waited in agonised silence. Ruth had the phone against one ear and she now informed Harry, "Fiona's there." As she did so her eyes met Malcolm's and they shared a wordless moment. They had tried to protect Harry from knowing how low his son had once sunk, only to find out he had known all along. It didn't really surprise her, though; Harry had an uncanny ability to gather information other people tried to hide.  
Fiona reached the bundle and fell to her knees beside it. She parted the blankets carefully, and looked into the pale face of Graham Pearce. "I've found him," she announced and everyone held their breath.  
Ruth found herself praying, something she hadn't actually done in years, and this instinctive reaction surprised her. Was it merely a result of her upbringing, of living in a society built on religious principles, or was it proof that each human was subconsciously aware of the existence of a higher being? That was a philosophical debate for another time. "Is he…?" she asked in a small voice, and Fiona felt for a pulse. For an awful moment she could feel nothing, and she was overwhelmed with despair at the thought that she was too late. But then, thankfully, she felt it, faint and erratic.  
"He's alive," she blurted, and the collective sigh of relief this elicited could have lifted the roof, none more so than Harry, who felt tears spring to his eyes at the news. He had only a few seconds to savour the euphoria, however, before Fiona added, "His pulse is very weak, though, and he's barely breathing," and Harry unconsciously pushed down on the accelerator once more.  
 _Come on Graham._

"Ambulance is seven minutes out," Ruth informed them, and fear gripped Harry. _Too long, it was too long.  
_ Malcolm took over. "Fiona, can you check his nails and his pupils? Are the nails blue and the pupils like pinpoints?"  
"Er…" There was a scuffling noise as she obliged. "Yes on both counts," she reported.  
"Okay, then they most probably injected him with heroin."  
"What do I do?" she asked, and the urgency in her voice told them in no uncertain terms that he was slipping away.  
"You need to check that his airwaves aren't blocked – sometimes they drown in their own vomit. If he stops breathing, administer mouth-to-mouth. When the paramedics get there, tell them it's a heroin overdose and they need to administer naloxone asap."  
"Right." Another shuffling noise, followed by Fiona saying, "Airwaves are open- God, he's stopped breathing!" And then there was silence, punctuated by the sounds of someone administering mouth-to-mouth.  
Ruth put a hand to her mouth and barely heard Harry snarl in her ear, "Where is that ambulance?!"  
"Three minutes out," she reported automatically, and the seconds ticked by, slowly and torturously. Harry, stuck in the appalling London peak-hour traffic, freely made use of his horn until a police car suddenly swung in front of him, siren wailing, and began to escort him through. He knew, without even asking, that this must be Ruth's doing and he was eternally grateful. He resolved, right there and then, to make sure that she knew. He would not make the same mistake with her that he had made with almost every other personal relationship in his life.

At long last, blessedly, they heard the siren of the ambulance approach over Fiona's comms, and a few seconds later she succinctly informed the paramedics of the situation. Mindful that Harry would be frantic with worry, she provided a running commentary on developments. "He's breathing again, and they've injected him with the naloxone. They're hooking up an IV now, and is about to load him into the ambulance." There was a muffled conversation before she came back. "They say his condition is critical," she said sombrely. "They'll take him to the Royal London," she added, before signing off. "Tell Harry good luck – I'm going back to help with the operation."

o0o

 _18:00  
Clapham North_

By the time the three remaining prospective suicide bombers arrived in the storage room, Adam, Zaf, and a handful of the Special Forces team were already installed in the room across the corridor. The rest moved down the stairs and took up positions along the corridor as soon as they got the signal from Fiona that everyone was now inside. Jo remained on her post outside the mosque, making sure there were no surprises from that end. The group of men inside that room were squeezed together rather uncomfortably, and Adam hoped that the Syrian would get to the point rather quickly. He and Zaf shared the earphones as they listened to Tu'mah rant against the West and their oppression of Islam. He railed against that evening's US bombing of Syria, and claimed that Britain had supported this attack. They could hear the young men become increasingly vociferous in their answering comments as he swept them along, and Adam felt a grudging admiration for the man's oratorical skills. After half an hour of this the Syrian suddenly fell quiet, and the two spooks looked at each other questioningly. What was going on?  
"Come, sit," they heard him say, and after a brief silence he continued. "The four of you are blessed. You have been hand-picked by Allah to fight this injustice."  
There were various murmurings of 'praise Allah' and 'thanks be to Allah' in response, and Tu'mah allowed this to subside before he went on. "Very few receive this privilege, but I will not lie to you – it is the most difficult thing to ask a man to sacrifice. Yes, I am sure you have guessed by now, but Allah is asking for your life."  
Zaf dropped his head, saddened that it had come to this. That young men could become so disaffected that they would resort to this.

"The men who answered this call before you sits at Allah's right hand now," the seductive voice continued, weaving its spell, "and they are surrounded by their hearts' desires. And here on earth? Here, none of us who knew them in this life is sad, because they are martyrs, and martyrs receive the ultimate bounty of Allah's blessings in the next life. And so it will be for the true believers among your family and friends."  
A brief pause, and Adam could picture the Syrian looking at each of his victims in turn, probing for weakness.  
"So tell me, blessed chosen of Allah: do you accept this mission from Al Muntaqim, the Avenger?"  
There was a chorus of resounding yesses, and Adam tensed. They were close. And moments later, the Syrian calmly laid out the four targets – a busy mall, a popular gay club, an underground station, and the school the American Ambassador's children attended. He talked unfeelingly of how to obtain maximum casualties, and how to ensure that the explosives would not be detected beforehand, and Adam had heard enough. He tapped the Special Forces commander on the shoulder and nodded, and they sprang into action.

o0o

Adam was right behind the first wave of Special Forces when they burst through the door, gun in hand, and the tableau that met them would remain engrained in his mind for a long time. Four young men, each holding a suicide vest, and the Syrian with a mock-up in his hand, showing them how to arm it. Four young faces with scared round eyes, and one older, more experienced face with an expression of weary resignation. The Syrian was first to react, to lower the vest and calmly put up his hands, and three of the youngsters followed suit. But one did not. His eyes darted from the black-clad men with their automatic weapons, to the Syrian with his hands in the air, to the explosives in his hand, and he made a move to arm it. He was screaming something as he did so, but the words were lost among the boom of numerous guns discharging at once. He was literally lifted from his feet by the force of the bullets slamming into him and flung backwards, where he fell in a crumpled heap, dead before his body hit the floor.

o0o

 _One hour later  
The Grid_

In the aftermath Ruth went through her duties methodically; informing the powers that be, organising the clean-up at the office block, and making sure that the Press Office was fully informed. But all the while her mind was elsewhere, in the Royal London hospital. She had had a brief conversation with Harry to inform him that it was over, that the terrorists had been arrested, and he had tersely informed her that they were still working on Graham. When Malcolm passed by and looked at her enquiringly, she simply shook her head; no news yet. Her eyes strayed to Harry's office and she blurted without thinking, "He didn't even take his coat; he'll be cold…", unaware that her forlorn tone of voice betrayed just how much she cared.  
Malcolm smiled gently, quietly happy for them, and prodded, "Then why don't you take it to him? We can manage without you for the rest of the night."  
The thought had already crossed her mind – it was an excuse to go to the hospital, but if it became clear he did not want her to stay she could simply drop off the coat and leave, without a loss of face for either of them. "Sure?" she asked, and Malcolm nodded.  
"Go."  
She began to gather her things. "You'll tell Adam?" she asked, feeling guilty for abandoning her post, but Malcolm was unconcerned. He waved a hand and wandered off, and she collected Harry's coat, made sure his gloves and keys were in the pockets, and stepped off the Grid.

o0o

 _Royal London Hospital_

She saw him as soon as she stepped into the waiting room. He sat on one of the plastic chairs against the wall, elbows resting on his knees as he stared vacantly at the floor. She had never seen him look more haggard. The harsh fluorescent lighting washed all colour from his face, but she knew that even in more natural light he would be pale. He looked up as her approaching footsteps penetrated his consciousness. "Ruth," he said in surprise and got to his feet, and the surprise was quickly replaced by relief.  
"You forgot your coat," she blurted, holding it out in front of her, almost like a shield, and his gaze dropped to it in brief puzzlement.  
"Oh. Thanks." He took it from her and deposited it on a chair, before his gaze returned to her.  
"How is he?" she asked, and his shoulders slumped.  
"He's not out of danger yet," he confided, his anguish evident in every word. "They say if he survives through the next hour he'll be okay."  
She nodded and reached out to squeeze his arm. "I'm sorry," she murmured, and didn't know what else to say. This was not the time for empty platitudes. His gaze dropped to her hand on his arm and something inside him gave way. He took a step towards her and slowly drew her into an embrace, and when she came willingly he released a shuddering sigh into her hair.  
"It's good to see you," he murmured, and she wound her arms around him and held him tightly.  
"You too," she replied, and they lapsed into silence, the physical contact providing more comfort than any words could.  
"Catherine and Jane are on their way," he informed her after a while. "Will you stay – at least until they arrive?"  
It was such a rare thing for this man to show vulnerability, and this admission that he did not want to wait out the next hour alone moved her deeply. "Of course," she said quickly, pressing a kiss to his throat, and he reluctantly released her so they could sit down. But as soon as they had settled themselves he reached for her hand and intertwined their fingers, and she pressed close to his side, understanding that he took solace from their closeness. They sat wordlessly, each lost in their own thoughts.

o0o

 _Half an hour later_

Ruth recognised Harry's daughter the moment she stepped through the door and nudged Harry with her shoulder. "Catherine," she said quietly, and Harry's face brightened at the sight of his other child. He stood quickly and went over to her, and Ruth remained where she was, keeping out of the way. This was a family matter, and a few dates with Harry did not give her the right to intrude.  
"Catherine," Harry breathed and enveloped her in a hug, and she clutched him to her before pulling back.  
"Any news?" she asked, and Harry shook his head mutely.  
"Where's your mother?" he asked, and Catherine pushed her hair back from her face.  
"Parking the car. She'll be here in a minute. Listen, Dad…" She hesitated as her eyes strayed to Ruth before she continued, "She's really angry. She blames you."  
Harry briefly dropped his gaze. "And you, love?" he asked at length, "Do you blame me as well?"  
Catherine's eyes flashed. "No. I don't," she said firmly. Her gaze softened under her father's torment. "Don't be mad, but Graham confided to me what he was doing for MI-5 a few days ago." Harry lifted his head in surprise as she continued, "He made his own choices. And he was proud of doing his bit for the country." He nodded at that, unable to speak, and pulled her back into his embrace, just as Jane entered the room behind them.

"You bastard," she hissed as soon as her eyes lighted upon her former husband, and Harry released his daughter.  
"Jane-" he began, but she didn't want to hear anything from him. He had put her son in danger and she would never forgive him for it. "How could you, Harry? How could you use your own son as a pawn?"  
Harry stood mutely in the face of her fury, her contempt. What could he possibly say? Graham was fighting for his life, and no matter what anyone else said, he knew he did bear some responsibility for that. So he just stood there and took the vitriol she was unleashing on him.  
"You know he has problems, that he shouldn't be exposed to overly stressful situations, and yet you allowed this. I will never forgive you for this. _Never_."  
"Mom," Catherine cautioned. "You're overwrought. Now's not the time for recrimination."  
Jane's gaze never left Harry. "Now is exactly the time. Because I want him to leave right now. I intend to never see him again."  
Harry looked up then, and for once his own anguish was plain for all to see. "What? No. I won't leave until I know he's all right and have spoken to him."  
Jane laughed derisively. "If you think I'll let you speak to him after everything, you're making a serious mistake. You forfeited that right the moment you decided to draw your son into your destructive world."  
Harry closed his eyes, distraught. "Jane, please. I need to tell him-"  
"No, Harry. Leave."  
It was said with cold conviction, before she turned away and strode towards the room where her son was lying.

Catherine looked at her father sadly. "Sorry."  
He could not respond, breathing against the devastation that threatened to overwhelm him, and Catherine laid a hand on his shoulder. "I'll tell him," she promised, "I'll tell Graham you were here, that you wanted to see him."  
Harry nodded gratefully, and finally managed to get out a few hoarse words. "Tell him-, uhm, tell him that I'm proud of him, more proud than I can possibly say." _And that I love him_ , he wanted to add, but he could not get the words out, almost choking on the emotion, and then he turned and strode blindly from the room.

 _tbc_


	12. Chapter 12

**PART XII: AFTERMATH**

 _Sometimes you put walls up not to keep people out, but to see who cares enough to break them down._

 _ **Socrates**_

 _Thursday 06 April, 20:15  
Royal London Hospital_

Ruth grabbed Harry's coat and rushed after him. She had felt like a voyeur, sitting there and witnessing the scene between Harry and his ex-wife, and she wasn't sure he would want to be in her presence after all of that. She was aware that Catherine watched her leave with a thoughtful expression, but she didn't care. All she wanted to do was see if there was any way she could comfort him. She caught up with him in front of the lift, where he stabbed at the button repeatedly. His face was white as chalk, and the muscles in his jaw was bunched as he tried to keep control of his emotions. When she stepped up next to him and held out his coat once more, he took it without looking at her, without saying anything. She didn't know what to say or do, so she stood next to him quietly, waiting for a sign from him. The lift finally arrived and they stepped into it and stood shoulder to shoulder as it descended, and for once she found the silence between them suffocating. Harry only spoke once they reached the ground floor. "There's something I have to do," he announced, his voice dead and tight, and she looked at him in alarm. She knew that tone, and she did not like it one bit.  
"What?" she asked, and at last he looked at her.  
"It's better that you don't know," he said, confirming her worst fears, and strode away before she could respond.  
She watched him go, and once he was out of sight she reached for her mobile and made a call. "Hello, Adam?... No, no news yet. Listen, I think Harry is about to do something reckless. I think he's going after Enfield."

o0o

 _20:49  
Four Seasons Hotel, London_

Parked at the curb across from the hotel, Harry saw Adam coming from far off and gripped the steering wheel in annoyance. How had he known? Ruth, he realised. Ruth had seen right through him at the hospital. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. She had seen the worst of him over these last few weeks – from that drunken night in the pub to the unseemly scene with his ex-wife at the hospital, and now the knowledge that she had guessed his intentions about Enfield. It would be a wonder if she didn't kick him to the curb at the end of all this, he thought morosely. If he were to lose her too… It did not bear thinking about. Adam reached the passenger door and Harry released the central locking to allow the younger man to get in beside him, but he was not disposed to be welcoming. "What do you want?" he scowled irritably, but Adam did not rise to the bait.  
He looked around at the dark street, before returning his blue gaze to his boss. "To find out what your intentions are." It was said evenly, but there was steel in his voice too – he would not be messed about.  
Harry smiled mirthlessly. "My intentions." He turned his head slowly and pinned Adam in a merciless glare. "I am not inclined to share them with you. You would be well-advised to stay out of this." There was no doubting the sincerity of the warning, but just to make sure there was absolutely no misunderstanding, he added, "Don't try to stop me."

To Harry's surprise Adam grinned, that cheeky, devil-may-care grin that had made him realise all those years ago that he might have found a kindred spirit in the blond spook; someone just as willing as he was to discard the rules when necessary. "Who said anything about stopping you?" the younger man asked, and then he sobered. "You may have promised Juliet not to lay a hand on our American friend, but I did no such thing." It was an unmistakable proposition, and an unspoken apology all in one. When Harry looked into Adam's eyes, they were filled with regret; for Graham, and for the torment the older man was going through as a result. This time when he smiled, it was genuine, filled with gratitude.  
"Thank you, Adam, for the offer. But I have made alternative arrangements."  
Before Adam could ask, Harry's mobile rang, and after glancing at the name he answered swiftly, his voice tight with fear. "Catherine?" Adam watched him listen, and saw him squeeze his eyes shut tightly, and his heart dropped. "Thank you, love. Thanks," Harry said as his face lit up with pure unadulterated relief, and Adam knew even before he turned and spoke. "He's all right. Graham is going to be all right."

Adam's own relief knew no bounds. At least he would not have Graham's death on his conscience, or the shadow of it hanging over his relationship with Harry for the rest of their association. He became aware that Harry was texting someone, and as he pressed 'Send' Adam saw the name 'Ruth' briefly flash on the screen and smiled to himself. Maybe it was serious, then, if the first person Harry thought to inform about Graham was their analyst. He stared out of the window, allowing Harry time to gather himself after the good news, before he brought them back to their initial topic. "What alternative arrangements?" he asked, just as the door behind him opened and someone slid into the backseat. He whipped his head round and stared into the face of Carl Morris in astonishment.

o0o

 _21:10_

The three of them stood in front of Enfield's suite, with two burly US Marines behind their shoulders. Harry nodded at Morris and the CIA officer knocked on the door and called out. "Mr Intelligence Advisor, it's Carl Morris from the embassy. Can I have a quick word?"  
There was a muffled reply from inside, and seconds later the door swung open to reveal Enfield swathed in a fluffy white bath robe. "Yeah?" he said, before he registered the additional people and his eyes widened in alarm. Morris pressed forward into the room before the other man could come to his senses, the others short on his heels, and by the time Enfield managed to get out any words they had backed him into the sitting area. "What the hell's going on?" he demanded, but Harry could see the fear lurking behind the bluster when the American glanced his way. He was momentarily overcome by an impulse to do damage and he balled his fists and clenched his jaw against the power of it. God, how he longed to drive his fist into that face, and to exact revenge for what this man had done to his son. Instead he withdrew a small recorder from his pocket and pressed 'Play', glowering at Enfield as the sounds of that meeting in the basement filled the suite. And as Enfield's voice boomed out, saying blithely _"Then you better silence him. Hell, he's a former druggie, right? Just shoot him full of shit and dump him on the street,"_ the American closed his eyes. But even through his eyelids he could sense the Englishman's furious gaze on him.

Harry waited until he opened his eyes again before asking brusquely, "Why?"  
Enfield's gaze flitted between Harry and Morris, the panic barely contained, but deeper than that Harry sensed something else. Paralysing fear. And it was not linked to their presence. Enfield decided on bluster. "Why?! Come on, Hairy, don't stand there and tell me you haven't done anything like this yourself. I've heard stories about your little jaunt in Cologne in the eighties. Staging terror attacks so that the German authorities would enact stricter security measures against the terror organisations of that time? This was no different."  
Harry tilted his head – how did Enfield know about that black op? He could think of only one possible answer. "At least I had the courage to stage the bombings myself," he retorted. "I didn't indoctrinate impressionable young men to become suicide bombers, and exhort them to kill as many innocent people as they could."  
Enfield licked his suddenly dry lips, puzzled by the broiling anger of the spook. It was as though he had personally affronted the man, and he didn't understand how. He appealed to his countryman instead. "Look. I was simply trying to shore up support for our President. You understand, don't you?"  
Morris watched him levelly. "No," he said quietly. "No, I don't understand it at all. I think you are a disgrace to the country."

Enfield's mouth fell open at the unexpected show of dissent from a fellow American. "You can't talk to me like that," he objected, "I am the US Intelligence Advisor. President Trump will have your balls for this."  
Morris smiled thinly. "You think he will sacrifice himself to save you? Because that is what will happen if he showed you any support after this fiasco. He's already in trouble for interfering in a federal investigation – an investigation which your collusion with the Russians have a direct relation to." Enfield paled visibly at those words as Morris continued, "You're finished."  
Enfield blinked slowly, and when he looked at them again there was a bottomless hopelessness in his eyes. He said, "We'll see," but his heart wasn't in it. Then he added unwisely, "You're making an awful stink about a few drug addicts," and Adam laid a calming hand on Harry's arm.  
Even Morris looked alarmed and Enfield realised the enormity of his error when Harry loomed over him with a murderous expression and snarled, "The one you so callously ordered dumped like garbage? He is my _son_. And I will see to it that you live out your days in ignominy. You better hope you never see me again, because if you do, you will find out exactly what kind of bastard I can be."  
At that Morris hastily waved the Marines forward. "You are being deported tonight. You're going back to the US, where there will be a full-scale investigation," he informed the other man, and watched dispassionately as the Marines hauled Enfield to his feet and marched him off to his room to dress.

o0o

When they found themselves on the pavement outside ten minutes later, Adam glanced at Harry. "You're a surprising bugger," he admitted, and Harry pressed his lips together.  
"You expected me to kill him?"  
"Yeah," Adam confessed. "I mean, if it had been Wes, I probably would have."  
Harry nodded and shoved his hands into his coat pockets. "You think Enfield came up with this whole scheme?" he asked, and Adam paused, realisation dawning.  
"The Russians?" he suggested, and Harry inclined his head.  
"Kerzhakov left the country immediately after that meeting in the basement. Convenient, isn't it? And Enfield is petrified – somehow I don't think it's the Americans' or our punitive system that scares him so much. I'd say he was blackmailed into this. Whatever they have on him, it's damaging enough for him to keep his mouth shut even now."  
Adam absorbed that. "You think _they'll_ kill him," he stated, and Harry remained quiet for long seconds.  
"Probably," he answered at length, suddenly sounding incredibly tired. "They'll want him silenced, especially if the FBI investigation into the Trump administration's links with Russia intensifies."  
Adam cocked his head, surprised at the hint of regret in Harry's voice, but before he could ponder on it Harry changed the subject. "The doctor said that Fiona saved Graham's life. If she hadn't arrived when she did and administered mouth-to-mouth…" He petered out, unable to articulate the consequences, and Adam nodded wordlessly. "So thank you. Both of you." With that he walked across the street and got into his car, and Adam watched until the taillights disappeared around the corner, silently thanking all possible deities for this outcome. He knew, as always, that next time they might not be so lucky – that eventually the terrorists would slip through their net and lives would be lost. But for tonight, at least, he could celebrate their success in preventing it, and in keeping everyone alive. He turned and walked back to his own car, to go back to his wife and his son, and to cherish them.

o0o

 _Friday 07 April, early morning  
Harry's house_

Harry was just about to leave his house when his mobile rang. He glanced at the small bag in his hand and hesitated, before he checked the display; it was Catherine. Unease fluttered in his stomach as he quickly answered; had something happened? Had Graham worsened during the night? She must have heard the apprehension in his voice as he greeted her because she immediately stated, "Don't worry, Graham's fine."  
"Oh," he responded, relieved, "then to what do I owe the pleasure?"  
"Well, it's Graham."  
"I thought you said-"he began, but she interrupted.  
"He _is_ fine. But he wants to see you. Can you come?"  
"Of course," Harry responded without hesitation, "but what about your mother?"  
"She knows," Catherine said dryly, and he thought he detected a smile in her voice, "Graham told her that he was a grown-up and that it was his decision whether he saw you or not."  
Harry dropped his head and smiled, gratitude warming his chest as he responded. "I'll be there in half an hour."

Graham wanted to see him.

o0o

 _Royal London Hospital_

When Harry entered Graham was propped up against the cushions, pale and thin. He picked up a glass to drink some water, but it shook so hard he couldn't manage to get the liquid into his mouth.  
"Here," Harry said, rushing forward, and took the glass and held it to his son's lips. As he looked into that pale face his heart constricted, and he almost reached out to stroke Graham's hair. But he did not. There was still so much unresolved between them, and he wasn't sure what the current boundaries of their relationship were.  
"Thanks," Graham said, watching as his father put the glass back on the bedside table. "And thanks for coming."  
"Of course. I'm sorry I wasn't here when you woke up," Harry confessed, not about to wash he and Jane's dirty linen in front of the children, but Graham waved a hand weakly. "It's all right. I know why you weren't."  
Harry breathed out slowly, immensely relieved, but ashamed all the same. There had been some truth in what Jane had said; he was at least partially responsible for Graham ending up here, and as he was searching for the right words to express this, to apologise, Graham spoke again. "So you got them? You stopped the attack?"  
"Yes." Harry reached out and touched his son's shoulder. "Thanks to your good work."  
Graham fiddled with the blanket, not meeting his father's eyes. "You got Kenny too?" he asked, remembering how his friend had sold him out.  
Harry hesitated, and Graham's eyes lifted to his questioningly. "…Kenny was killed in the raid," he admitted, and Graham's face crumpled momentarily so Harry added, "I'm sorry. I know you wanted to save him. But sometimes people don't want to be saved."

The younger Pearce nodded as he knuckled away a tear, before he confessed, "He told them where to dump me – he told them about Asherton Alley."  
"I know," Harry said gently, "we picked it up on the surveillance," wondering where this was going.  
"Do you know why he told them to take me there?" Graham challenged, and Harry finally understood.  
"Yes, I do," he responded evenly. "They thought it would increase the embarrassment for me if you were found there. Graham, we don't have to do this-"  
"Yes we do!"  
Harry paused at the vehemence in his son's voice, then said placatingly, "All right; I know about your arrest there a couple of years ago – is that what you want to know?"  
Graham searched his face, looking for revulsion, rejection, but he found none of those in his father's gentle expression. "Yes," he confessed, then added wretchedly, "I'm sorry, Dad. I blamed you for everything, and that wasn't right."  
Something released in Harry; a pain he had refused to acknowledge for so long, and he sighed deeply. "So am I," he responded, a weight lifting from his chest as he did so. "Besides, I'm sure I deserve some, if not most, of that blame." He sobered, and his voice was grave as he continued. "We have all done things we are ashamed of." His gaze had turned inward as he spoke, and for a brief moment Graham saw his deep regret, before it was replaced by a quiet resolve. "But life goes on, and so do we." He looked at Graham imploringly, and the young man understood: he would always be his father's son, no matter what happened.  
Graham blinked rapidly, overwhelmed, and when he smiled, Harry finally found something of himself in his son's features.

o0o

 **EPILOGUE**

 _One must wait until the evening to see how splendid the day has been._

 _ **Sophocles**_

 _Saturday 08 April, mid-afternoon  
Ruth's house_

Ruth unpacked her groceries, her mind on other things as she mechanically stuffed tins and packages into cupboards. She really should eat more fresh produce, she thought idly, but it was difficult; her irregular hours meant that anything she bought fresh often went off before she got a chance to cook it. But she was hopeful that at least today she would be able to cook herself a decent meal. A lasagne, maybe. As she unloaded some fresh tomatoes, herbs, cheese and mince, she toyed with the idea of calling Harry. He had not been at the office yesterday; and Adam had hinted that he had gone to make preparations for Graham to be admitted to Tring once he was discharged from the hospital, so that they could assist him through the withdrawal period. But she suspected different; BBC News had reported yesterday evening hat the Russian shipping magnate Anytoly Kezhakov had been found unconscious in his Paris apartment, from an apparent heroin overdose. His friends and business associates had expressed surprise – there had been no indication that he was a drug user. Her reaction to this news had caught her unawares – there was no condemnation, no judgement towards Harry. Every time she thought about it, Graham's voice filled her head, pleading desperately for his life. The Russian had got what he deserved.

She sighed; she was worried about Harry – she had not heard from him since the text to inform her that Graham would pull through. Her thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of her doorbell and she frowned as she made her way from the kitchen. Who would turn up at her house unannounced on a Saturday? Most of her friends had long learnt to call first, lest she was at work and they ended up with a wasted journey. She opened it to find the man in question standing there, and sitting at his feet was a scruffy dog on a leash.

She just stared at him, too surprised to say anything, and he gave a crooked smile in response. "Hi," he said rather self-consciously as her eyes roamed over him, checking his well-being. He looked good - rested and relaxed; a hundred times better than the last time she'd seen him at the hospital, and her mood lifted in response. "I, er," he looked down at the dog at his feet, who wagged her tail enthusiastically at Ruth, "I was walking Scarlet and somehow found myself here," he admitted and her heart soared. "So I thought I'd invite you to join us?" Ever the gentleman, he did not expect her to ask him in, and it was that thoughtfulness which dissolved any lingering doubt she might have had about dating him.  
"No," she blurted, and his face fell.  
"Oh." He looked down at the dog again, momentarily lost, and she took a step toward him. It was her smile more than anything else that alerted him to the shift which had taken place inside her, and she saw the hope flare in his eyes as he looked at her questioningly.  
"I mean no, I don't want to go for a walk," she clarified as she reached for his free hand and drew him forward. "What I'd much rather have is for you to come inside." It was all the invitation he needed, and the next thing she knew his lips were on hers and he walked her back inside, tugging Scarlet after him.

o0o

They kissed ardently, pouring all of the worry and heart-ache of the last few days into it, and it quickly blazed out of control. Harry dropped Scarlet's lead, needing both hands to caress, to excite, to stoke the fire. Ruth's own hands were also busy, running though his hair, stroking the back of his neck, nimble fingers dancing down his spine. There was no hesitation in these actions, and he knew – she was ready to consummate their relationship. The realisation made his head swim and his body react, and he could feel himself begin to stiffen. And by the way she ground against him, he knew that she had realised it too, and that she welcomed it. He tore his mouth from hers to gasp, "What about Scarlet?", and she took a breath in an attempt to clear her head enough to respond.  
"Oh, er, I have a small back-garden she can run around in?" and led the way through the house towards the back. "Fidget's normally out there – they can keep each other company," she said over her shoulder as she opened the back door, and Harry reached down to release Scarlet's leash and let her out. Ruth stood a moment to check whether she was all right, before Harry reached around her and unceremoniously pulled the door closed.  
"Come here," he said, his voice low with desire, and she stepped into him and fused their mouths back together. And when he slipped his hands under her shirt and caressed the skin in the small of her back, the last conscious thought fled.

They made it as far as her grandmother's antique side-board. Harry impatiently swept all the knick-knacks arranged on it to the floor and lifted her onto it, running his hands under her skirt and up her thighs, pushing up the material as he did so, whilst she grappled with his belt. He groaned in relief when she pushed his trousers down and freed him, and then his fingers were between her legs and all she registered was the pleasure. When she was ready, he replaced his fingers with his length, sliding into her carefully, and they both paused, surprised at how right it felt to be joined as intimately as two human beings could be. He took a few seconds to kiss her, to seal the union between them, and she smiled against his lips when he pulled away. He looked into her eyes, and the emotion in his almost overwhelmed her, and she knew that no words would ever be adequate in this moment. So she nudged her heel against his buttock, and he buried his face in her neck and began to move. It was fast and frantic, punctuated by flesh slapping against flesh, by groans and grunts and the occasional word – 'yes', and 'there' and 'more'. It was wonderful and heady and real. And when she tumbled over the edge, and he followed a few thrusts later, she knew life would never be the same again. She was a part of him, now, and when he pressed kisses all over her face in the aftermath, still buried inside her, she also knew that he was now a part of her, for eternity. For better or worse, they loved each other.

And everything else was mere details.

 _Fin_


End file.
